Half an hour later, Brock followed Nancy into the parlor. The Lady of
The Maple Leaf was at his side, and Nancy had an instinctive feeling
that they were in search of her. It was the Lady who spoke.
“Mr. Brock has just been talking to your father in the hall,” she said;
“and now he has asked me to give him a ceremonious introduction to you.
As a rule, we aren’t so ceremonious, here in Canada; but Mr. Brock
insists upon it that the butter-knife and the mustard are no proper
basis for acquaintance.”
“I have learned a thing or two from Johnny Bull,” the tall Canadian
added, as he placed himself in the window-seat beside Nancy’s chair.
“Johnny Bull?”
“Yes, an English fellow that has been stopping here for a few days.
Where is he? I haven’t seen him for a week,” he added, turning to the
Lady.
“He is ill; I expect him back in a day or two. Please excuse me. I hear
the telephone.” And she hurried out of the room.
Nancy looked after her regretfully. Even during the three days she had
been there, she had gained a sound liking for the blithe little woman,
always busy, never hurried, and invariably at leisure for a friendly
word with any or all of her great family of boarders. Brock’s glance
followed that of Nancy.
“Yes, she is a remarkable woman,” he assented gravely to her unspoken
words. For an instant, his keen gray eyes met Nancy’s eyes, steadily,
yet with no look of boldness. Then his tone changed. “But about Johnny
Bull. He is a revelation to the house, the son of a stiff-backed
generation. He was here for a week, and left us all trying to get his
accent and to imitate his manners.”
“And what became of him?”
“Gone. The Lady says he is ill. I hope we didn’t make him so. Have you
been here long, Miss Howard?”
“Three days.”
“And have you seen anything at all of Quebec?”
“Yes, a little. I have been to the Cathedral, and the Basilica, and the
Gray Nunnery, and the Ursuline Convent, and—”
“You appear to be of an ecclesiastical turn of mind,” Brock suggested,
laughing.
“So does Quebec,” she retorted.
He laughed again.
“Yes, I suppose it does to a stranger; but wait till you have been here
a little longer.”
“What then?”
“You’ll forget that a church exists, except the one you go to, on
Sundays.”
She laughed in her turn.
“Not unless I grow deaf. The Ursuline bell begins to ring at four, and
the one on the Basilica at half-past. From that time on until midnight,
the bells never stop for one single instant. Under such circumstances,
how can one forget that a church exists?”
He modified his statement.
“I mean that you’ll find that Quebec has its worldly side.”
“Which side?” she queried. “As far as I can discover, the city is
bounded on the north by the Gray Nuns, and on the south by the
Franciscan sisters. Moreover, I met Friar Tuck in the flesh, down in
Saint Sauveur, yesterday.”
Brock raised his brows questioningly.
“Do you mean that your explorations have even extended into Saint
Sauveur?”
“Yes. Still, there is hope for me. I haven’t been to the Citadel yet,
and I keep my guide-book strictly out of sight.”
“Out of mind, too, I hope,” he advised her. “It holds one error to every
two facts, and the average tourist carries away the impression that
Montgomery was shot in mid-air, like a hawk above a hen-roost. If you
don’t believe me, go and listen to their comments upon his tablet.”
“Where is it?”
“Two thirds of the way up Cape Diamond, above Little Champlain Street.
It is labelled as being the spot where Montgomery fell; but, as it is
two hundred feet above the road, one can only infer that he came down
from somewhere aloft. Is this your first visit to Quebec, Miss Howard?”
“Yes. I have been in Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré for three weeks, though.”
“Any pilgrimages?” Brock inquired, as he deliberately settled himself in
a less tentative position and crossed his legs. A closer inspection of
Nancy was undermining his vigorous objection to red hair, and he
suddenly determined that the parlor was a much more attractive spot than
he had been wont to suppose.
“One; but it was a large one.”
“Miracles, too?”
Nancy laughed.
“One and a half,” she responded unexpectedly.
“Meaning?” Brock questioned.
“The half miracle was a man who threw away his crutches and crawled off
without them.”
“And the whole one?”