Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 723

'Anything wrong, Herbert?' asks her Ladyship.

'A ship aground on the Short Reefs,' replies he shortly.

'O dear, how dreadful! What is the name of the ship, Sir Herbert?' asks Liddy clasping her hands, and opening her eyes very wide.

'The Daring; and unless they get her off at the top of spring-tide, I fear she will go to pieces on the rocks.'

The Admiral drinks his coffee quickly, and prepares to leave the room.

'Where are you going, Herbert? You haven't taken half a breakfast.'

'I can't stay, Kate; for I must give orders about sending off help to the Daring.'

'Are any lives lost?'

'Not so far, I'm thankful to say. I hope we shall have her afloat before long;' and he goes to the library with the letter in his hand.

Lady Dillworth is very busy that morning, and not the least of her engagements is trying on her 'Lucia' dress. Before she goes up to her dressing-room on this important business, she runs into the library to ask Sir Herbert what time he is to be home to dinner. But the room is empty. The Admiral must have been called out suddenly, for a letter, still glowing with wet ink, lies open on his desk. His wife glances at it in passing, then pauses, and bends over it closely. The words are few, written off in her husband's bold dashing hand, and the contents are evidently for her father. It is an order for the Leo to be despatched at once to the assistance of the unfortunate Daring.

Lady Dillworth stands aghast. How can the charade party get on without Captain Reeves? It will be an utter disappointment, and she will be overwhelmed with mortification and vexation in the eyes of all her guests!

'Why did Herbert fix on the Leo? There are numbers of other ships; any one of them would do as well. The Leoni, for instance,' she exclaims half aloud.

In an instant the pen is in her hand, and with an impulse that seems irresistible she adds two letters to the Leo's name, and is surprised to see how exactly she has imitated her husband's writing.

'Of course I must tell Herbert, and explain why I did it. What will he think of my daring?' she asks laughingly, as she returns the pen to its place.

Then she goes up-stairs, and is soon closeted with her dressmaker; and the recollection of ships and all such matters is soon banished from her memory; for the dress is an odious fit! The alterations required are legion. Madame Darcy may be clever at fashionable modern dress; but in medieval costume she has failed utterly. Katie waits patiently while the assistant, with scissors and needle, brings the garment into wearable shape. After the woman is gone, Lady Dillworth recollects about the letter, and returns to the library to tell her husband of the change she has made in it. But the letter has vanished, and the footman meets her with a message.

'My Lady, Sir Herbert told me to say he would not be home to dinner.'

'Did your master say where he was going?'

'No, my Lady; but the groom told me he was called off to Hillview, and was to go by the twelve o'clock train; and it's half-past twelve now, my Lady.'

So there is no help for it; the explanation cannot be given now; and Katie is fain to console herself by thinking that one ship is as good as another, and it can't matter much whether the Leo or the Leoni goes off to the rescue.

The day passes quickly. When it grows dark, Katie and Liddy, still in their morning dresses, and shivering a little from the cold, find their way up to Lady Dillworth's 'boudoir' – a cosy retreat, with its bright fire and closely drawn curtains. Here are Katie's books, her writing-table, and all the odds and ends that somehow gather in work-boxes and baskets. Here are periodicals uncut, for she has not had much time for reading of late, and drawing materials which are rarely touched.

On a round table near the fire is spread a delicately pink-tinted set of tea-things; and Dresden china baskets filled with tea-cakes and shortbread give promise of a dainty little meal. Miss Delmere, in a most becoming morning dress, with a warm blue shawl round her shoulders, plunges herself into the depths of a large arm-chair, places her feet on the fender-stool, and looks up brightly out of her merry blue eyes.

'How cosy this is, Kate! I'm quite enjoying it.' She pours a supply of cream into her fragrant tea and sips with keen relish.

'I wish Herbert were here,' sighs Katie in reply.

'Is he dining at Hillview this evening?'

'I hardly know, for he left no message about that; but I rather think he will dine at Belton Park, which is only a couple of miles from Hillview.'

'Is Lady Ribson gone back to Scotland yet?'

'No; she leaves Belton Park to-morrow; and I'm so sorry I have never once seen her, for Herbert is very desirous we should know each other. I believe old Lady Ribson is his beau idéal of what a woman should be. She is his god-mother; and her niece Bessie was his first wife.'

'You've never had time to go to Belton Park, Katie.'

'I know that; but I'm sorry now I didn't "make time," by setting other things aside. This hateful charade business has taken up every spare minute.'

'Hateful!' echoes Liddy reproachfully.

'Perhaps that is too strong a term; but the preparations have swallowed up all my time and everything else.'

'Don't begin to croak at the last minute. I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly!' exclaims Liddy, putting her cup down for more tea. Then she asks confidentially: 'Do you think Sir Herbert altered? Captain Reeves says he never saw a man aged so much in so short a time: he thinks the Admiral looks very ill.'

Lady Dillworth starts up impatiently: 'I don't know why Captain Reeves should think any such thing. My husband is not ill; I have never once heard him complain.'

'Ah! his is one of those grand reserved natures that would rather suffer anything than make a moan,' says Liddy, stirring her tea calmly.

'Why did you not tell me about Herbert's looking ill before, Liddy? I declare you make me quite uneasy.'

'Oh, I daresay it's all imagination on Walter's part. I'm sorry I ever mentioned it,' Liddy replies quickly.

'You needn't regret telling me; for if there is anything the matter, I ought to know it.'

Liddy is vexed at having introduced so disquieting a subject, for Katie remains silent and thoughtful during the rest of the repast, then goes languidly up-stairs to dress for the party.

CHAPTER XI. – THE CHARADE PARTY

The bitter storm raging over the country, and spreading woe and terror and desolation far out at sea, does not much affect the expected guests. Carriage after carriage drives in at the gates of Government House; and ere long, many eager eyes are fixed on the drop-scene, the owners of them ready to be pleased or otherwise by the coming performance. Curiosity and criticism are on the alert; some of the audience are just as much inclined to find fault as to admire. When Lady Dillworth 'comes on' she feels unaccountably agitated at seeing her 'dear friends' sitting in solemn state on rows of chairs, all ready to detect her slightest shortcomings. For the moment she feels as though she would fain dart away beyond their range of vision. But this nervousness speedily vanishes. Amidst the bursts of applause that greet her, she begins to catch somewhat of the spirit of a successful débutante, and her pulse throbs triumphantly. Her voice rings out in strains of pathetic melody; she forgets her qualms, her trepidation, and almost even her own identity, so carried away is she by the intensely tragic music.

During the first part, the singing goes on faultlessly, then a somewhat awkward sense of failure begins to steal over the performers. Major Dillon and Walter differ about some minor points, and the former nearly bewilders the others with his eccentric proceedings. The chorus get out of tune, and the Major reproves them so vigorously that he nearly banishes all sense of harmony out of their heads.

Liddy Delmere is much amused, and she and Walter make themselves conspicuous with ill-timed mirth. This is unfortunate, as the irate mother of the hapless 'Lucia' should be grave and dignified. But Liddy forgets her part, the words and air and everything, and only remembers Walter Reeves is beside her. Lady Dillworth calls her to order with one of her haughtiest looks.

'Liddy, Liddy! do be reasonable. Don't you see what wretched idiots we are making of ourselves? We are only bringing down ridicule on our heads.'

Then in a pause, when she is not wanted to sing, Katie slips away to a room adjoining, that has been fitted up temporarily for the performers. She lifts the window-blind, and looks out on the rather grim garden, dimly lighted up with flickering coloured lamps. Dense clumps of evergreens glitter with raindrops, and cast deep uncertain shadows on the grass. The bare branches of the beech-trees are swaying wildly in the wind, and flinging themselves about like gaunt weird arms. Above in the troubled sky, heavy masses of storm-cloud are driven rapidly past, giving glimpses now and then of an almost full moon.

'Oh, what a fearful night this must be at sea!' muses Katie, and then a sudden shudder comes over her as her thoughts fly off to the unfortunate ship Daring, perhaps even now wrecked and broken up on the fatal Short Reefs.

'What have I done? what have I done?' she exclaims wildly, as like a lightning flash, a sudden revelation of the possible result of her act that morning comes before her. She has prevented the Leo from going to sea by altering her husband's order; her own meddling fingers have kept back the very aid that might have saved the ship. The Leo is at that moment safely riding at her anchor in Seabright harbour; her captain is sporting himself in delightful ease. But what about the Daring? Where is she?

Even now the pitiless waves may be dashing over her, even now she may be breaking up on the sharp rocks. Perhaps the storm that rages past is bearing on its wild wings the awful death-shrieks of sailors as they go down into the pitiless waters.

Ah, they may be crying for help, that never comes! – help, she has kept back from them, foolishly, wickedly kept back! Souls, precious souls, may be going to their doom, in life's full prime, with unrepented sins on their heads; and she indirectly may be the one who has hurled them to their end. These thoughts rush through Lady Dillworth's mind with a crushing force, and with a vividness that makes her heart bound, her whole frame tremble. In the howling of the wind, as it sobs with wild violence through the trees, she fancies she hears the cries of the sailors writhing in agony amidst the surging waves. She thinks they are calling on her– accusing her, and her brain whirls and her heart beats almost to madness.

'"There is sorrow on the sea; it cannot be quiet." O God! help these poor men in their distress – lay not their death to my charge!' she cries almost aloud, and then she looks up, and sees Liddy Delmere watching her with alarm.

'O Lady Dillworth! what is the matter? How pale and ill you look! Shall I call any one? Shall I get anything?'

'Be quiet, Liddy; I insist. I feel faint; but you need not proclaim the fact to the whole world.'

Katie covers her face with her hands, and stands for a minute trying to recover herself – trying – while the angry wind howls like an avenging spirit in her ears. Presently she looks up: 'I feel better now. What do you want of me, Liddy?'

'Have you forgotten our duet comes on when this chorus is over? Are you well enough to sing?' asks Miss Delmere, as she gazes with amazement at Lady Dillworth's haggard face and startled eyes.

'O yes; I will sing. Don't be uneasy; I shall not break down.' She takes Liddy's arm, and they make their appearance on the stage just in time. Much license has been taken with the score of Lucia di Lammermoor– new songs and duets have been introduced, and it is one of the latter in which Katie is now required to take a part.

With a great effort she composes herself, and begins. As she goes on, her voice regains its rich fullness; no one would suppose such a tempest of agony had so lately swept over her.

While she is sustaining a rather prolonged cadence, she sees the Admiral enter the room. He stands for a minute looking at her, and listening; then he catches a glimpse of Walter Reeves, and goes quickly towards him. Though in the middle of her duet, Katie notices the start her husband gives and the quick frown that gathers on his brow. She sees him beckon Walter aside; the heads are bowed a moment as an excited whisper passes, then they leave the room together. Ere her part is over, she sees Walter return alone, and quietly make his way among the groups of people till he gets near the stage again, and there he takes up his position. The moment Lady Dillworth is free she is at his side, questioning and eager.

'I saw Sir Herbert here a minute ago. Where is he now?'

'He went out to find your father, for he said he must see him at once. I offered to go; but Sir Herbert would not hear of that. – How splendidly you sang in that duet, Lady Dillworth! Your voice came out in perfection.'

'Why did he want to see my father?' she asks impatiently.

'Sir Herbert did not say; but something appears to have annoyed him very much. I never saw him more put out, though he gave no explanation.'

Katie changes the subject abruptly.

'Is it very stormy at sea to-night, Captain Reeves? I mean, is there any danger to ships?'

'I should think there is. We haven't had such a storm as this since last winter. Every roar of the wind only makes me congratulate myself on being in such snug quarters. There's a wonderful difference between this fairy scene, with its music and mirth and its galaxy of youth and beauty, and what one would meet with out on the wild billows to-night. – What a charming evening you have given us, Lady Dillworth!'

Katie can hardly keep herself from stamping her little foot with impatience, as she looks up at Walter's self-satisfied face, beaming with enjoyment; and then she watches the smile with which he presently bends down to whisper something to Miss Delmere. Liddy responds with a flash of her bright blue eyes, and a heightened colour springs to her cheek as she makes room for Walter beside her. Never has she looked better than on this evening; the quaint antiquated costume contrasts capitally with her fair laughing face. At last the charade comes to an end; there is a subdued murmur of applause as everybody says how cleverly it has all been done. They make wild guesses at the word, and Walter has at last to explain the secret. Lady Dillworth listens to the comments of her guests with an abstracted air; and when the last carriage drives away, she summons the footman and inquires whether Sir Herbert has returned.

Hunter is an old servant of the Admiral's, and has followed his master's fortunes in various places and homes, and was with him when the first Lady Dillworth died; so he knows his ways, and sees more than perhaps his employers give him credit for. He turns a grave face towards his mistress, as he replies: 'Yes, my Lady. Master came in just when the acting was over; and when he saw the company wasn't gone, he told me to tell your Ladyship he was very tired, and would go to bed at once, instead of going back to the drawing-room.'

'Very tired, did he say?'

'Yes, my Lady; and he looked weary-like.'

'That will do, Hunter. We want breakfast very early to-morrow morning, as Miss Delmere is going away by the first train.'

Then Katie goes up to her boudoir. The fire is still burning brightly, and the lamp is throwing a soft light through the curtained room. Still in her fancy dress, the stomacher flashing with jewels, she seats herself in the arm-chair; and there, while the warmth steals over her, she covers her face with her hands, and thinks bitterly, confusedly – the loud shrieking of the wind and the fury of the cruel storm keeping up a wild accompaniment to her musings.

She wonders what she had better do. Shall she rouse her husband from his slumbers, and tell him all, or shall she wait till events call forth a confession? Never has she felt such a poor, mean, despicable coward. She hates herself for her irresolution; and all the time her fancy pictures up the surging whirlpools, the jagged rocks, the dashing waves, the yawning gulfs, and the drowning men with their despairing eyes, ever calling for the help that does not come!

REMINISCENCES OF QUEBEC

For the following reminiscences connected with the stay of one of the British regiments at Quebec during the winter of 1870-71, we are indebted to an officer of the garrison. He writes as follows:

Until the close of 1871, Quebec was a fortress occupied by British troops; but before the winter set in, the Orontes and other store-ships carried away the troops and their possessions, and the stronghold passed for ever away from the rule of Great Britain.

Quebec, the principal fortress of Canada, also known as the 'Gibraltar of the West,' is built upon the strip of land projecting into the confluence of the St Lawrence and St Charles rivers. Originally a French settlement, it afterwards became one of the colonies of Great Britain, and has continued to be so until the present date.

'There is but one Quebec, and its beautiful scenery,' remarked a valued friend to the writer, as one autumn afternoon we scanned the view from the Levis Cliffs, and watched the 'Fall fleet' preparing to depart for England ere winter had closed the St Lawrence. 'The scenic beauty of Quebec,' says an old writer, 'has been the theme of general eulogy.' The majestic appearance of Cape Diamond, surmounted by fortifications; the cupolas and minarets, like those of an eastern city, blazing and sparkling in the sun; the loveliness of the panorama, the noble river like a sheet of purest silver, in which one hundred vessels may ride with safety; the graceful meandering of the river St Charles before it finds its way into the St Lawrence; the numerous village spires scattered around; the fertile fields clothed with innumerable cottages, the abodes of a rich and moral peasantry; the distant Falls of Montmorenci; the rich park-like scenery of Levis; the lovely Isle of Orleans; and more distant still the frowning Cape Tourment, and the lofty range of purple mountains of the most picturesque forms, which bound the prospect, unite to make a coup d'œil which without exaggeration is scarcely to be surpassed in any part of the world.

In the winter-time there is much more leisure for the merchants than in summer, as the St Lawrence from the end of December until the end of April is one vast ice-field, isolating Quebec from water-commerce, but giving full employment to numbers of 'ice-men' to saw out great oblong masses of clear bright ice to fill the ice-houses with this much-needed summer luxury. The ice and snow are also turned to account in the fashionable amusements of snow-shoeing, tobogganing, skating, sleigh-driving, &c. Snow-shoeing is capital exercise, but somewhat trying at the commencement; for with a pair of snow-shoes fastened to the feet, the beginner is rather apt to find himself immersed in a snow-drift, and it is a difficult matter to get upon his legs again. This pastime, however, is so well known in theory that we pass to the more favourite one of tobogganing. The toboggan or Indian sleigh – one or two thin planks neatly curled round at one end – is drawn over the snow to the top of a hill. The passengers sit down, carefully 'tucking in' all articles of dress; a slight push is given, and away glides the toboggan at the rate of from twenty to thirty miles an hour. Starting is easy enough; but to descend to the desired spot is not so easy as might appear at first sight, and requires some skill in steering; for if that important matter be unskilfully performed, the toboggan, like a boat, gets 'broadside on' to the hill, twists and turns, shooting out its passengers, who rarely escape some hard knocks. If, however, the steering is successful, the tourists have, in school-boy phrase, a 'jolly ride,' and glide along the level ground at the foot of the slope for a considerable distance. There is, of course, the bother of pulling the toboggan up to the top of the hill; but such effect has the exhilarating dryness of the atmosphere upon one's spirits, and such is the charm of the amusement, that this labour is cheerfully undertaken.

One favourite run was down the citadel glacis, through a gap in a fence and into a closed yard at the base; another, also from the glacis, but running in the direction of the Plains of Abraham. The former being the most dangerous slide, was the favourite one, and many hard blows were given and received. One young gentleman met his fate in the form of a deep cut across his knee, by being tossed out of the toboggan among some scrap-iron and old stove-pipes hidden under the snow. Much sympathy was felt for him, for the wound took a long while to heal, and prevented him tobogganing more that winter. Another gentleman coming down the slide by moonlight with two young ladies in his toboggan, in place of steering through the fence, steered into it, and his face came in contact with a post; unluckily for him, the post was the hardest, and he escaped with a broken jaw, and the ladies with more or less bruises. There was a laughable upset on another occasion. A lady, said to be at least forty (also 'fat and fair'), with a friend of the opposite sex, tempted fortune in a toboggan; but as they approached the gap above mentioned she lost her nerve, and threw herself out as the toboggan was rushing down the steepest part of the slide. In less time than the reader will take to peruse this incident, she was on her head in the snow, and her feet, incased in very black boots, in the air; she then tumbled across the slide; the toboggan with its remaining occupant flew lightly over her, and then this frisky matron and her friend rolled like a pair of frolicksome lambkins to the foot of the slope, the toboggan of course arriving before them.

Skating at Quebec is chiefly carried on at the Rink, a large building about one hundred and seventy feet long and seventy wide, the earth-floor of which is flooded. The ice is carefully swept daily; and each evening the rink-keeper 'dusts' it with just enough water to fill up the cuts made in it by the skaters; so that each morning finds a fresh field of glittering smooth ice. The wooden shed does three duties – namely, keeps out the heat of spring, keeps off the snow, and keeps in the cold of winter; so that skating can often be had at the Rink and nowhere else.

The band of the Rifles often played at the Rink, which was sometimes lighted up at night by gas; and visitors to Quebec had capital opportunities of seeing its young ladies exhibit their skill in the execution of sundry intricate skating-figures. Some years ago, there was a fancy-dress ball on the Quebec rink, and we have extracted a portion of its description from one of the local papers of that date: 'The bugle sounded at nine o'clock, and the motley crowd of skaters rushed on the ice, over which they dashed in high glee, their spirits stirred to the utmost by the enlivening music and the cheering presence of hundreds of ladies and gentlemen. Over the glittering floor sped dozens of flying figures, circling, skimming, wheeling, and intermingling with a new swiftness, the bright and varied colours, the rich and grotesque costumes succeeding each other, or combining with bewildering rapidity and effect. The gentlemen, in addition to the usual characters, introduced some novelties: an owl, a monkey, a monster bottle, a tailor at work, a boy on horseback – all capital representations and by good skaters. Among the ladies were representations of "Night" and "Morning," a vivandière, a habitant's wife, and other characters that appeared to advantage. The skaters presented both a varied and brilliant appearance, their parts being well sustained as to costume and deportment, and their movements on the ice being characterised by that grace and skill of movement bred of long practice. The dances included quadrilles, waltzes, galops, &c.'

That this elegant accomplishment can be turned to use is proved by a legend of two settlers in the Far West who saved their lives by the aid of a pair of skates. One had been captured by Indians, who did not intend to let him live long; but amongst his baggage was a pair of skates. The Indians' curiosity was excited, and the white man was desired to explain their use; he led his captors to the edge of a wide lake, where the smooth ice stretched away as far as the eye could see, and put on the skates. Exciting the laughter of his captors by tumbling about in a clumsy manner, he at length contrived to get a hundred yards from them without arousing their suspicion, when he skated away as fast as he could, and finally escaped.