EPILOGUE.

"Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, The fatal shadows that walk by us still."

Beaumont.

Far up on the east coast of Scotland, where the huge breakers of the Atlantic dash in angry tumult against the granite crags of that rugged sh.o.r.e, stands the castle of Dunmorton, a grim historic pile.

For generations it has been the home of the McAllisters, and is still little changed since the days of Bruce and Balliol, when armed men issued from the low, arched doorway, to work destruction on their enemies of the South.

The last of the race dwells there now; a man yet in the prime of life, though one who takes but little interest in the doings of the busy world.

He leads a melancholy and purposeless existence, and seems, as the years go on, to grow more morbid. Some say that he never got over the shock of his wife's sudden death, and that the terrible accident completely shattered his nerves. Others, chiefly, old wives, who have lived on the estate for years, and are deeply versed in all matters connected with their chief's family, shake their heads wisely, and mutter that there is a curse overhanging this branch of the clan. They say it has been so since the '45, when The McAllister of that day turned his son Ivan adrift.

Be that as it may, the present chief is a most miserable man. He has wealth, and everything wealth can command. He has broad lands, power, unbounded influence, for fortune has marked him for one of her favorites.

But in the long winter evenings, when the great hall of Dunmorton, with its splendid trophies of the chase and grand oak panelling, is lighted up by the fitful glow of the huge pinewood fire, Noel McAllister sees a vision, which freezes the blood within his veins.

From a dim eerie in the great hall there glides with a slow, noiseless movement a tall, slight lady, clad in a gown of pale green silk. Her snow-white hair is crowned by a cap of finest lace. Her hands are clasped together convulsively, and she stretches them out and sobs in agonized entreaty:

"Oh, Ivan, me bairn! me bonnie bairn, it is sair and lonely wi'out ye here. Will ye no stay wi' us a while longer? Oh! Ivan, me bairn!"

And night after night, so surely as the waves beat against the rocky crag of Dunmorton does the tall pale lady come, always as the clock strikes twelve, no matter who the guests may be. Doors may be barred, every precaution taken, nothing can prevent her entrance.

It comes to pa.s.s that after a time gay visitors from London decline The McAllister's invitations, even the splendid shooting of the Glen does not compensate them for the shock to their nerves caused by The McAllister spectre, as they call it. Noel is left much alone, but he has Dunmorton, its broad lands and vast revenues. For these he bartered his honor, his integrity. By his own rule he should be happy, for all his early ambitions are fulfilled. But in truth he has very little happiness or real satisfaction in his prosperity, and there are few even of his poorest neighbors who would care to change places with the "haunted laird."

Far away across the sea, removed from the din and bustle of their busy London lives, for two months in every year, Marie and Eugene Lacroix make their home at Father Point. Although the famous prima donna has retired from public life, still, on the occasion of pilgrimages in honor of the Good St. Anne, she graciously consents to sing for her own people during the celebration of Grand Ma.s.s at the pilots' church. There may be heard the clear, sweet notes of the favorite pupil of the good cure, who, after a life spent in good works, has pa.s.sed to his eternal reward, but the memory of whose sainted example will ever remain in the minds of two people, who owe so much to the holy precepts of Rene Bois-le-Duc, cure of Father Point.