Lady of the Ice (8 page)

Who
is she? Ay. Who, indeed? Hadn't I been torturing my brain for seventy-nine hours, sleeping as well as waking, with that one unanswered and apparently unanswerable question?

“Who is she?” repeated Jack.

“Well,” said I, “that's the very thing that I wish to find out, and I want you to help me in it. I told you that she didn't leave any message — ”

“But, didn't you find out her name?”

“No.”

“By Jove! You're a queer lot. Why, I'd have found out her name the first thing.”

“But I didn't — and now I want your help to find out not only her name, but herself.”

At this Jack rose, loaded his pipe solemnly, and, with the air of one who is making preparations for a work of no common kind, lighted it, flung himself back in the easy-chair, and sent forth vast volumes of smoke, which might have been considered as admirably symbolical of the state of our minds.

“Well, Macrorie,” said he, at last, “I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go round to all the hotels, and examine the lists.”

“Pooh!”

“Well, then, take the directory and hunt up all the names.”

“Nonsense!”

“Why nonsense?”

“Because I don't know her name. Didn't I impress that upon your mind?”

“By Jove!” cried Jack Randolph, after which he again relapsed into silence.

“See here, Macrorie,” said he, at length.

“I have it.”

“What?”

“Go round next Sunday to all the churches.”

“What's the use of that?”

“Go round to the churches,” repeated Jack, “scan every bonnet — and then, if you don't see her, why then, why — go to the photographic saloons. You'll be sure to find her picture there. By Jove! Why, Macrorie, the game's all in your own hands. These photographic saloons are better than a whole force of detective police. There's your chance, old man. You'll find her. Do that, and you're all right. Oh, yes — you'll find her, as sure as my name's Jack Randolph.”

“No go, Jack,” said I. “You see I couldn't recognize her even if I were to see her.”

“Couldn't what?”

“Couldn't recognize her.”

“You surely would know her if you saw her.”

“I don't think I should.”

“Well, of all the confounded fixes that ever I met with, this is the greatest!”

“That's the peculiarity of my present situation.”

Jack relapsed into smoky silence.

“The fact is,” said Jack, after a brief pause, “we've got to go to work systematically. Now, first of all, I want to know what she looks like.”

“Well, that's the very thing I don't know.”

“Nonsense! You must know some thing about it. Is she a blonde or a brunette? You can answer that, at least.”

“I'm not sure that I can.”

“What! don't you know even the color of her complexion?”

“When I saw her, she was as white as a sheet. Even her lips were bloodless. You see, she was frightened out of her wits.”

“Well, then, her hair — her hair, man! Was that dark or light?”

“I didn't see it.”

“Didn't see it?”

“No. You see it was covered by her hood. Think of that driving sleet. She had to cover herself up as much as she could from the terrible pelting of the storm.”

“Well, then, I'll ask only one question more,” said Jack, dryly. “I hope you'll be able to answer it. A great deal depends upon it. In fact, upon a true answer to this question the whole thing rests. Gather up all your faculties now, old chap, and try to answer me correctly. No shirking now — no humbug, for I won't stand it. On your life, Macrorie, and, by all your future hopes, answer me this — was your friend — a woman or a man?”

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?”
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!”