The Lady of the Ice Part 15

"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 hap-hazard to take her across."

"Well, risk it, and put in an a.s.sumed name. Make up something. Any name will do. The lady, I dare say, hasn't the smallest idea of the driver's name. Trot out something--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 a.s.sociations," 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt from his distracted parent."

And I wrote out this:

_Paul Verrier, of Chaudiere, 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 to-day, 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 something to think of besides my own sc.r.a.pes. 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 XIV.

A CONCERT.--A SINGULAR CHARACTER.--"G.o.d SAVE THE QUEEN."--A FENIAN.--A GENERAL ROW.--MACRORIE TO THE RESCUE!--MACRORIE'S MAIDEN SPEECH, AND ITS 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 a.s.sociations ask our subscriptions; joint-stock companies wish our names; missionaries and musicians, lawyers and lecturers, printers and preachers, tailors and teachers, operas and oratorios, b.a.l.l.s 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 b.u.t.terfly existence that you imagine it to be. What with patronizing Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry, inspecting militia, spouting at volunteers, subscribing to charities, buying at bazaars, a.s.sisting 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 a.s.sist, 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 Ign.o.bile;" 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."