And this was Jack. This was my broad-browed, frank-faced, golden-haired, bright, smiling, incoherent, inconsistent, inconsequential, light-hearted, hilarious Jack--the Jack who was once the joy of every company, rollicking, reckless, and without a care. To this complexion had he come at last. Oh, what a moral ruin was here, my countrymen! Where now were his jests and gibes--his wit, that was wont to set the table in a roar? Alas! poor Yorick! _Amour_! _amour_! _quand tu nous tiens_, who can tell what the mischief will become of us! Once it was "not wisely but too many"--now it was "not wisely but too well"
--and this was the end of it. O Louie! O Jack! Is there no such thing as true Platonic love on earth?
But there was not much time for Jack to scowl or for me to meditate.
The widow did not live very far away, and a quarter of an hour was enough to bring us there.
It was a handsome house. I knew it well. Jack knew it better. But it looked dark now, and rather gloomy. The shutters were closed, and there was no sign of life whatever.
Jack stared at the house for a moment, and then jumped out. I followed.
We hurried up the steps, and Jack gave a fierce pull at the bell, followed by a second and a third.
At the third pull the door opened and disclosed a maid-servant.
"Mrs. Finnimore?" said Jack, as he stepped into the hall--and then stopped.
The servant seemed surprised.
"Mrs. Finnimore?" said she.
"Yes," said Jack. "Is she here?"
"Here?"
"Yes."
"Why, sir--she's gone--"
"Gone!" cried Jack. "Gone! Impossible! Why we drove straight here from St. Malachi's, and didn't meet her. Which street did she go?"
"Which street, sir? St. Malachi's, sir?" repeated the servant, in bewilderment.
"Yes--which way did she go?"
"Why, sir--she went to Montreal," said the servant--"to Montreal, you know, sir," she repeated, in a mincing tone, bridling and blushing at the same time.
"To--where? what?" cried Jack, thunderstruck--"Montreal! Montreal! What the devil is the meaning of all that?" And Jack fairly gasped, and looked at me in utter bewilderment. And I looked back at him with emotions equal to his own. And we both stood, to use an expressive but not by any means classical word--dumfounded.
[Had a thunder-bolt burst--and all that sort of thing, you know, my boy.]
Jack was quite unable to utter another word. So I came to his help.
"I think you said your mistress went to Montreal?" said I, mildly and encouragingly, for the servant began to look frightened.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you be kind enough to tell me what she went there for? I wouldn't ask you, but it's a matter of some importance."
"What for, sir?" said the servant--and a very pretty blush came over her rather pretty face. "What for, sir? Why, sir--you know, sir--she went off, sir--on her--her--wedding-tower, sir."
"Her WHAT!!!" cried Jack, wildly.
"Her wedding-tower, sir," repeated the servant, in a faint voice.
"Her wedding-tour!" cried Jack. "Her wedding-tour! Do you mean what you say? Is this a joke? What do you mean?"
At this, which was spoken most vehemently by Jack, who was now in a state of frightful excitement, the servant turned pale and started back in fear--so I interposed.
"Don't be at all alarmed," I said, kindly. "We merely want to know, you know, what you mean by saying it was a wedding-tour. What wedding? We want to know, you know."
"Wedding, sir? Lor', sir! Yes, sir. This morning, sir. She was married, you know, sir."
"MARRIED!" cried Jack, in a strange, wild voice.
"This morning!" I exclaimed.
"Lor', sir! Yes, sir," continued the maid, who was still a little frightened at the presence of such excited visitors. "This morning, sir. Early, sir. Six o'clock, sir. And they took the seven o'clock train, sir--for Montreal, you know, sir--and they talked of New York, sir."
"_They_ talked? _They_? _Who_? _Married_! Who married her? The widow!
Mrs. Finnimore! Married! Nonsense! And gone! What do you mean? Who was it?"
The maid started back in fresh fear at Jack's terrible agitation.
Terrible? I should rather think so. Imagine a criminal with the noose about his neck hearing a whisper going about that a pardon had arrived.
Agitation? I should say that there was occasion for it Still, I didn't like to see that pretty servant-maid frightened out of her wits. So I interposed once more.
"We merely want to know," said I, mildly, "who the gentleman was to whom your mistress was married this morning, and with whom she went to Montreal?"
"Who, sir? Why, sir--it was the chaplain, sir--of the Bobtails, sir --the Rev. Mr. Trenaman."
"THE CHAPLAIN!!!" cried Jack, with a strange voice that was somewhere between a shout and a sob. He turned to me. There was ecstasy on his face. His eyes were all aglow, and yet I could see in them the moisture of tears. He caught my hand in both of his.
"Oh, Macrorie!" he faltered, "see here, old boy--it's too much--Louie --all right--at last--too much, you know."
And the long and the short of it is, he nearly wrung my hand off.
Then he turned to the servant-maid, and fumbling in his pockets drew out a handful of sovereigns--
"See here!" he said, "you glorious little thing! you princess of servant-maids! here's something for a new bonnet, you know, or any thing else yon fancy."
And he forced the sovereigns into her hand.
Then he wrung my hand again.
Then he rushed wildly out.
He flung some more sovereigns at the astonished coachman.
Then he sprang into the carriage, and I followed.
"Where shall I drive to, sir?" said the coachman.