At the beginning of this solemn question, I had roused myself and sat upright, but at its close I flung myself down in disgust.
“Well,” said Jack, “why don’t you answer?”
“Jack,” said I, severely, “I’m not in the humor for chaff.”
“Chaff! my dear fellow, I only want to get a basis of action — a base of operations. Are you sure your friend was a woman? I’m in earnest — really.”
“That’s all rubbish — of course she was a woman — a lady — young — beautiful — but the anguish which she felt made her face seem like that of Niobe, or — or — well like some marble statue, representing woe or despair, and all that sort of thing. What’s the use of humbugging a fellow? Why not talk sense, or at least hold your tongue?”
“Don’t row, old boy. You were so utterly in the dark about your friend that I wanted to see how far your knowledge extended. I consider now that a great point is settled, and we have some thing to start from. Very well. She was really a woman!”
“A lady,” said I.
“And a lady,” repeated Jack.
“Young?”
“Young.”
“And beautiful as an angel,” I interposed, enthusiastically.
“And beautiful as an angel,” chimed in Jack. “By-the-by, Macrorie, do you think you would know her by her voice?”
“Well, no — no, I don’t think I would. You see, she didn’t say much, and what she did say was wrung out of her by terror or despair. The tones of that voice might be very different if she were talking about — well, the weather, for instance. The voice of a woman in a storm, and in the face of death, is not exactly the same in tone or modulation as it is when she is quietly speaking the commonplaces of the drawing-room.”
“There’s an immense amount of truth in that,” said Jack, “and I begin to understand and appreciate your position.”
“Never, while I live,” said I, earnestly, “will I forget the face of that woman as I held her fainting form in my arms, and cheered her, and dragged her back to life; never will I forget the thrilling tones of her voice, as she implored me to leave her and save myself; but yet, as I live, I don’t think that I could recognize her face or her voice if I were to encounter her now, under ordinary circumstances, in any drawing-room. Do you understand?”
“Dimly,” said Jack, “yes, in fact, I may say thoroughly. You have an uncommonly forcible way of putting it too. I say, Macrorie, you talk just like our chaplain.”
“Oh, bother the chaplain!”
“That’s the very thing I intend to do before long.”
“Well, it’ll be the best thing for you. Married and done for, you know.”
“Nonsense! I don’t mean that. It’s some thing else — the opposite of matrimony.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, never mind, I’ll let you know when the time comes. It’s a little idea of my own to countermine the widow. But come — don’t let’s wander off. Your business is the thing to be considered now — not mine. Now listen to me.”
“Well.”
“Let’s put your case in a plain, simple, matter-of-fact way. You want to find a person whose name you don’t know, whose face you can’t recognize, and whose voice even is equally unknown. You can’t give any clew to her at all. You don’t know whether she lives in Quebec or in New York. You only know she is a woman?”
“A lady,” said I.
“Oh, of course — a lady.”
“And an English lady,” I added. “I could tell that by the tone of her voice.”
“She may have been Canadian.”
“Yes. Many of the Canadian ladies have the English tone.”
“Well, that may be all very true,” said Jack, after some moments’ thought, “but at the same time it isn’t any guide at all. Macrorie, my boy, it’s evident that in this instance all the ordinary modes of investigation are no good. Streets, churches, drawing-rooms, photographic saloons, hotel registers, directories, and all that sort of thing are utterly useless. We must try some other plan.”
“That’s a fact,” said I, “but what other plan can be thought of?”
Jack said nothing for some time.
He sat blowing and puffing, and puffing and blowing, apparently bringing all the resources of his intellect to bear upon this great problem. At last he seemed to hit upon an idea.
“I have it!” he exclaimed. “I have it. It’s the only thing left.”
“What’s that?”
“Macrorie, my boy,” said Jack, with an indescribable solemnity, “I’ll tell you what we must do. Let’s try —
“Advertising!!!”
Chapter 13
“Advertising!!!”
“Advertising?” said I, dubiously.
“Yes, advertising,” repeated Jack. “Try it. Put a notice in all the papers. Begin with the Quebec papers, and then send to Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Hamilton, Kingston, London, and all the other towns. After that, send notices to the leading papers of New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, St. Louis, New Orleans, Cincinnati, Portland, Chicago, Boston, and all the other towns of the United States.”
“And while I’m about it,” I added, “I may as well insert them in the English, Irish, Scotch, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Turkish, and Indian journals.”
“Oh, bosh!” said Jack, “I’m in earnest. What’s the use of nonsense? Really, my dear fellow, why not advertise in the Quebec papers? She’ll be sure to see it.”
“Well,” said I, after some thought, “on the whole it isn’t a bad idea. It can’t do any harm at any rate.”
“Harm? Why, my dear boy, it’s your only chance.”
“All right, then; let’s try advertising.”
And saying this, I brought out my entire writing-apparatus and displayed it on the table.
“Will you try your fist at it, Jack?” I asked.
“I? nonsense! I’m no good at writing. It’s as much as I can do to write an ‘I. 0. U.,’ though I’ve had no end of practice. And then, as to my letters — you ought to see them! No, go ahead, old boy. You write, and I’ll be critic. That’s about the style of thing, I fancy.”
At this I sat down and commenced the laborious task of composing an advertisement. In a short time I had written out the following:
A gentleman who accompanied a lady across the ice on the 3d of April was separated from her, and since then has been anxious to find out what became of her. Any information will console a distracted breast. The gentleman implores the lady to communicate with him. Address Box 3,333.
I wrote this out, and was so very well satisfied with it, that I read it to Jack. To my surprise and disgust, he burst out into roars of laughter.
“Why, man alive!” he cried, “that will never do. You must never put out that sort of thing, you know. You’ll have the whole city in a state of frantic excitement. It’s too rubbishy sentimental. No go. Try again, old man, but don’t write any more of that sort of thing.”
I said nothing. I felt wounded; but I had a dim idea that Jack’s criticism was just. It was rather sentimental. So I tried again, and this time I wrote out some thing very different.
With the following result:
If the party who crossed the ice on the 3d of April with A. Z. will give her address, she will confer an unspeakable favor. Write to Box No. 3,333.
“Oh, that’ll never do at all!” cried Jack, as I read it to him. “In the first place, your ‘A. Z.’ is too mysterious; and, in the second place, you are still too sentimental with your ‘unspeakable favor.’ Try again.”
I tried again, and wrote the following:
A gentleman is anxious to learn the address of a party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Address Box No. 3,333.
“Oh, that’ll never do!” said Jack.
“Why not?”
“Why, man, it’s too cold and formal.”
“Hang it all! What will suit you? One is too warm; another is too cold.”
Saying this, I tried once more, and wrote the following:
A. B. has been trying in vain to find the address of the party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Will she have the kindness to communicate with him to Box No. 3,333?
“No go,” said Jack.
“Why not?”
“Well, you see, you call her a ‘party,’ and then announce that this ‘party’ is a woman. It won’t do. I wouldn’t like to call any lady a ‘party.’ You’ll have to drop that word, old boy.”
At this I flung down the pen in despair.
“Well, hang it!” said I. “What will do? You try it, Jack.”
“Nonsense!” said he. “I can’t write; I can only criticise. Both faculties are very good in their way. You’ll have to start from another direction. I’ll tell you what to do — try a roundabout way.”
“A roundabout way?” I repeated, doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“What’s that?”
“Why, advertise for — let me see — oh, yes — advertise for the French driver. He was drowned — wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you advertise for him, she will respond, and thus you will come into contact with her without making a fool of yourself.”
“By Jove, Jack,” said I, “that’s not a bad idea! I think I get your meaning. Of course, if she has any soul, she’ll sympathize with the lost driver. But what name shall I put?”
“Was he a common driver? I gathered this from your story.”
“Oh, yes. It was a sleigh from the country — hired, you know, not a private sleigh.”
“She couldn’t have known his name, then?”
“I suppose not. It looked like a sleigh picked up haphazard to take her across.”
“Well, risk it, and put in an assumed name. Make up some thing. Any name will do. The lady, I dare say, hasn’t the smallest idea of the driver’s name. Trot out some thing — Napoleon Bonaparte Gris, or any thing else you like.”
“How would Lavoisier do?”
“Too long.”
“Well, Noir, then.”
“I don’t altogether like that.”
“Rollin.”
“Literary associations,” objected Jack.
“Well, then, Le Verrier,” said I, after a moment’s thought.
“Le Verrier — ” repeated Jack. “Well, leave out the article, and make it plain Verrier. That’ll do. It sounds natural.”
“Verrier,” said I. “And for the Christian name what?”
“Paul,” suggested Jack.
“Paul — very well. Paul Verrier — a very good name for a Canadian. All right. I’ll insert an advertisement from his distracted parent.”
And I wrote out this:
Notice. — Paul Verrier, of Chaudière left his home on the 3d of April last, to convey a lady to Quebec across the ice. He has not since been heard of. As the river broke up on that day, his friends are anxious to know his fate. Any one who can give any information about those who crossed on that date will confer a great favor on his afflicted father. Address Pierre Verrier, Box 3,333.
“That’s about the thing,” said Jack, after I had read it to him. “That’ll fetch her down. Of course, she don’t know the name of the habitant that drove her; and, of course, she’ll think that this is a notice published by the afflicted father. What then? Why, down she comes to the rescue. Afflicted father suddenly reveals himself in the person of the gallant Macrorie. Grand excitement — mutual explanations — tableau — and the curtain falls to the sound of light and joyous music.”
“Bravo, Jack! But I don’t like to settle my affairs this way, and leave yours in disorder.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Jack. “There’s no immediate danger. I’m settling down into a state of stolid despair, you know. If it wasn’t for that last business with Louie, I could be quite calm. That’s the only thing that bothers me now.”
“I should think the widow would bother you more.”
“Well, to tell the truth, she’s getting to be a bit of a bore. She’s too affectionate and exigeante, and all that, you know. But, then, I always leave early. I dine with her at seven, and get away before nine. Then I go to Louie’s — or, at least, that’s the way I intend to do.”
“You’re going to Louie’s again, then?”
“Going to Louie’s again? Why, man alive, what do you take me for? Going again? I should think I was. Why, Louie’s the only comfort I have left on earth.”
“But Number Three?”
Jack sighed.
“Poor little thing!” said he. “She seems to be rather down just now. I think she’s regretting that she didn’t take my offer. But I wrote her a note today, telling her to cheer up, and all that.”
“But Miss Phillips? What’ll you do when she comes? When will she be here?”
“She’s expected daily.”
“That will rather complicate matters — won’t it?”
“Sufficient for the day,” said Jack.
“I tell you what it is, my boy. I feel very much struck by Louie’s idea about the three oranges. You’ll find it precious hard to keep your three affairs in motion. You must drop one or two.”
“Come, now, Macrorie — no croaking. You’ve got me into a placid state of mind by telling me of your little affair. It gave me some thing to think of besides my own scrapes. So don’t you go to work and destroy the good effect that you’ve produced. For that matter, I won’t let you, I’m off, old chap. It’s fifteen minutes to three. You’d better seek your balmy couch. No — don’t stop me. You’ll croak me into despair again. Good-night, old man!”
Chapter 14
A CONCERT. — A SINGULAR CHARACTER. — “GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.” — A FENIAN. — A GENERAL ROW. — MACRORIE TO THE RESCUE! — MACRORIE’S MAIDEN SPEECH, AND ITS SINGULAR EFFECTIVENESS. — O’HALLORAN. — A STRANGE COMPANION. — INVITED TO PARTAKE OF HOSPITALITY.
On the following day I sent my notice to the papers.
On the evening of that day there was to be a concert. Everybody was going. It was under the patronage of the military, and of course everybody had to go. For you must know that, in a garrison-town like Quebec, we of the military order have it all our own way. If we smile on an undertaking, it succeeds. If we don’t, it languishes. If we frown, the only result is ruin. But, as we are generally a good-natured lot, we smile approvingly on almost every thing. It gets to be an awful bore; but what can we do? Societies wish our countenance at their public gatherings, and we have to give it. Benevolent associations ask our subscriptions; joint-stock companies wish our names; missionaries and musicians, lawyers and lecturers, printers and preachers, tailors and teachers, operas and oratorios, balls and Bible-meetings, funerals and festivities, churches and concerts — in short, every thing that lives and moves and has its being awaits the military smile. And the smile is smiled. And so, I tell you what it is, my dear fellow, it amounts to this, that the life of an officer isn’t by any means the butterfly existence that you imagine it to be. What with patronizing Tom, Dick, and Harry, inspecting militia, spouting at volunteers, subscribing to charities, buying at bazaars, assisting at concerts, presiding at public dinners, and all that sort of thing no end, it gets to be a pretty difficult matter to keep body and soul together.
The concert under consideration happened to be a popular one. The best of the regimental bands had been kindly lent to assist, and there were songs by amateurs who belonged to the first circles in Quebec, both civil and military. It was quite a medley, and the proceeds were intended for some charitable purpose or other. The house was crowded, and I could not get a seat without extreme difficulty.
The concert went on. They
sang “Annie Laurie,” of course. Then followed “La ci darem;” then “D’un Pescator Ignobile;” then “Come gentil;” then “Auld Lang-syne;” then “Ah, mon Fils!” then “Roy’s Wife of Aldivalloch;” then “The Last Rose of Summer;” then “Allister MacAllister;” then “The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls.”
As this last song was being sung, I became aware of an old gentleman near me who seemed to be profoundly affected. “The Last Rose of Summer” had evidently touched him, but Tara had an overpowering effect on him. It was sung confoundedly well, too. The band came with a wild, wailing strain, that was positively heart-breaking. The party just mentioned was, as I said, old, and a gentleman, but he was tall, robust, broad-shouldered, with eagle-like beak, and keen gray eyes that were fitting accompaniments to so distinguished a feature. His dress was rather careless, but his air and the expression of his face evinced a mixture of eccentricity and a sense of superiority. At least, it had evinced this until the singing of Tara. Then he broke down. First he bowed his head down, resting his forehead upon his hands, which were supported by his cane, and several deep-drawn sighs escaped him.
Then he raised his head again, and looked up at the ceiling with an evident effort to assume a careless expression. Then he again hid his face. But the song went on, and the melancholy wail of the accompaniment continued, and at last the old gentleman ceased to struggle, and gave himself up to the influence of that wonderful music. He sat erect and rigid; his hands in front of him clasped tightly round his stick; and his eyes fixed on vacancy; and as I looked at him I saw big tears slowly coursing down his cheeks.
At length the song ceased, and he impatiently dashed his tears away, and looked furtively and suspiciously around, as though trying to see if any one had detected his weakness. I, of course, looked away, so that he had not the smallest reason for supposing that I had seen him.
After this the concert went on through a varied collection of pieces, and all the time I wondered who the old gentleman with the eagle face and tender sensibilities might be. And in this state of wonder I continued until the close.
Lady of the Ice Page 9