It was two months later, a chilly October afternoon.

The glory of the maple and the sumach had departed, and a dingy russet brown had succeeded the more brilliant tints of early autumn. The tide was high, and the waves dashed angrily against the long pier at Rimouski.

On this pier were gathered six persons, awaiting the arrival from Quebec of the outward-bound steamer. They were Madame McAllister and her son Noel, Marie Gourdon, Pierre, her father, Jean, her brother, and M.

Bois-le-Duc. What was the matter with M. le cure this afternoon? He looked anxious and care-worn, and scarcely spoke to anyone. Marie, on the contrary, was very bright, and tried to keep up Madame McAllister's spirits, which were at the lowest ebb.

On the whole, there was not much talking done, for a cloud seemed to hang over the whole party.

Presently, some miles out on the gulf, at first like a tiny black speck, appeared the steamer. Nearer and nearer it came, growing larger and larger as it approached. The dark waters heaved up in huge waves as her bow pierced their depths. The foam dashed high, as if in angry protest at the intruder. And Madame McAllister, glancing at the ship, said in her quaint, pathetic way: "Ah! Noel, my son, here is the ship like some huge monster come to swallow you up. I cannot let you go. Oh! my son, my son!"

At length the steamer "Peruvian"--for Lady McAllister desired that Noel should travel in every way befitting her heir--reached the pier. Ropes were thrown out and caught by the fishermen.

The mails, in great leather bags, were thrown on board, and shouts were heard of "All pa.s.sengers aboard!"

During all this bustle Noel McAllister stepped aside, and said to M.

Bois-le-Duc, in a hurried, anxious tone:

"And now, my father, are you not going to give me your blessing?"

M. Bois-le-Duc, strangely enough, had made no advance towards his favorite pupil; in fact, during the whole of the last month had seemed to avoid him. Now, when thus directly questioned, he answered:

"Yes, Noel, I wish you all happiness in your new life, and hope you will have a safe and pleasant voyage."

"And is that all you have to say to me, my father?"

The cure did not reply, but pointed to Madame McAllister, who was gazing at her son with eager, wistful eyes, jealously counting every moment of absence from her side. He obeyed the cure's unspoken command, and returned to his mother, conscience-stricken at the silent rebuke of this his best and most valued friend.

No change of plan was possible now. The die was cast for good or evil.

Weakness had triumphed over strength. Blame him--he was worthy of blame; but, pausing for a moment, may it not be said that nine men out of ten would have decided as did Noel McAllister?

"Oh! my mother, you know I shall write every week. Do not distress yourself. Marie, good-bye. Remember always it was you who bade me go.

Good-bye, Monsieur Gourdon. Good-bye, Jean."

He was off at last, and the steamer moved out from the pier. How bitter these partings are and how hard to bear, but the thought crossed M.

Bois-le-Duc's mind just then that there were worse things than partings.

"Take me home," said Madame McAllister. "I cannot stay here watching my boy disappear."

She was terribly distressed, and the cure and Jean Gourdon led her home.

No one seemed to think of Marie. She had disappeared behind a huge pile of lumber, and had sat down to rest on a great log. There she sat for she knew not how long; she seemed unconscious, oblivious of all, save that tiny black speck which was sinking lower and lower on the horizon.

Finally it disappeared down the great waste of interminable ocean.

The sun set, and the air grew chill; the tide rose high; the curlews hovered round with their weird cries; the Angelus from the church came wafted across the waters, faint and sweet in its distant music, and the laborers in the fields paused a moment in their tasks to do homage to the Holy Maiden in murmured prayers. But Marie Gourdon heard none of these sounds, felt not the cold of the evening air. Her senses were benumbed, and she was only conscious of a dull, aching pain.

Two hours pa.s.sed, and during these two hours Marie fought out her battle with herself. When M. le cure missed her, he went to look for her at her father's house, and not finding her there, the idea occurred to him that she might be still on the pier. Returning, he found her. Laying a gentle hand on her down-bent head, he said:

"My child, come home with me. You must not give way like this, such grief is wrong, and--he is not worthy of it."

"Oh! my father," said Marie, lifting a wan, white face to his, "life is indeed hard."

"Yes," said the cure, raising his hat reverently, and looking out towards the cold, unfathomable waters of the great Gulf. "And, my child, there is only One who can help us on that rough path."

CHAPTER VIII

TEN YEARS AFTER.

"Oh! wouldst thou set thy rank before thyself?

Wouldst thou be honored for thyself or that?

Rank that excels the wearer, doth degrade, Riches impoverish that divide respect."

_Sheridan Knowles_

The morning-room at Glen McAllister was an ideal room of its kind, in a rather plain and severe style. The floor was covered with dainty blue and white straw matting, and huge rugs of musk-ox skin, from the wilds of the great North-West of Canada, were scattered here and there about the room.

At a large desk, looking as if it might belong to a man with an immense business connection, sat Lady Margaret McAllister. She was adding accounts with a methodical accuracy and speed even a bank clerk could not hope to excel. She was a woman of about forty, though looking younger, her hair being of that tawny shade of yellow that rarely turns grey, and her complexion bright and fresh, bearing witness to a healthy outdoor life.

That morning she was very busy counting up the week's expenses, and trying to explain to her husband that the conduct of their bailiff was most reprehensible. Lady Margaret always used long words in preference to short ones, which might express exactly the same meaning. This was one of her peculiarities.

"Three months' rent for the Mackay's farm is due, Noel. I really think you might bestir yourself a little to look after the estate. Jones is the most execrable manager I ever knew. Here you are, with nothing to do all day except smoke or shoot, letting things go to rack and ruin. We shall be in the poor-house soon. Umph! I've no patience with you."

"No, my dear, you never had, and each year you have less. I am, indeed, a sore trial to you," replied her husband, smiling placidly.

"You are, there can be no question about that," said Lady Margaret, bitterly.

Noel took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at her calmly for a moment, and said:

"Then why----"

"Why--Yes, I know what you are going to say, you have said it so frequently--why did I marry you?" she interrupted.

"You have guessed rightly, my dear; that was just what I was about to remark."

"I married you because I could not help myself."

"Oh, yes, you could. You might have refused, and I would have gone back to Canada--would gladly have done so."

"No, Noel," said his wife, rising and standing before him, a rather terrifying figure; "be at least truthful. You would not have given up the estate even though it was burdened with an incubus like me."

"Well, well, my dear," said Noel, yawning aggravatingly, "all that is over. As your poet says, 'Let the dead past bury its dead.'"

"Inexact in small things as well as great," said Lady Margaret, who had returned to her accounts. "Your poet, you mean, for your quotation is from Longfellow, and he lived nearer your country than mine."

"Oh! I never remember these fellows' names. I take it for granted you are right. You always are, my dear. But let us return to prose. Are you going to Lady Severn's to-night to dinner?"

"Of course I am, and so are you. You know the famous prima donna, Mademoiselle Laurentia is staying at the Castle, and we shall hear her sing."