"Yes, Noel, I believe you will never change;" and their voices joined in the refrain of that old boat-song, awaking the echoes:

"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

"Mr. McAllister, how ill you look," said Elsie Severn, coming towards him, and noticing his weary, abstracted expression.

"Yes, that's just what I was saying," put in the irrepressible Jack. "I think he'd better go home."

"How rude you are!" said his sister. "Come, Mr. McAllister, come into the house, and I will give you a cup of tea. That will do you good, and then I will introduce you to Mademoiselle Laurentia."

"Oh! Miss Elsie, there's nothing the matter with me. I should like to be introduced to Mademoiselle Laurentia now."

"Very well. See, she is coming this way," said Elsie. "Is she not pretty?

Have you ever seen her before?"

"Seen her before? How could I have seen her before?"

He told the untruth unblushingly; it was by no means his first.

Mademoiselle Laurentia was close to them now, and Elsie said, in her clear, distinct tones:

"Let me introduce Mr. McAllister to you, mademoiselle. You are compatriots."

Just then Lady Severn called Elsie, and Marie Gourdon and Noel McAllister were left alone for a moment. She was the first to break the awkward silence, as she said in her quiet voice, without the faintest shade of embarra.s.sment in it:

"How do you like this country, Mr. McAllister?"

"How do I like this country? Is that all you have to say to me after these years?"

"What else can I have to say to you? Is not this a fine old garden? How brightly the moon shines!"

"Marie Gourdon, do not speak to me in that calm, aggravating way.

Reproach me! Anything but this. I cannot bear your indifference."

"Reproach you? For what? Do you mean for leaving me? If so, that is an old story, told long, long ago. I am thankful now you did leave me. And, Mr. McAllister, I must remind you that only to my most intimate friends am I known as Marie Gourdon. I must beg you to excuse me now; Lady Severn is calling me."

CHAPTER X.

"O! primavera gioventu dell' anno!

O! gioventu primavera della vitae!!!"

It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of June, and the London season was at its height. Everyone who was anybody of importance was now in town. Sweet, fresh-looking girls, in the full enjoyment of their first season, were cantering by, gaily chattering in the Row, their faces glowing with excitement and pleasure as they caught sight of some pedestrian acquaintances and nodded their greetings. Stately old dowagers were enjoying to the full the bright sunshine, as they lay comfortably back in their well-padded broughams. Here were brilliantly apparelled men and women, the very b.u.t.terflies of London society, talking of the events of yesterday, and speculating on the evening's entertainment, as they walked leisurely up and down the broad promenade of the Park. But near, and almost touching the skirts of these favored ones, ran an undercurrent of poverty, distress and misery. So close allied were the two streams of human life, that scarce an arm's length divided them.

Here and there, just outside the Park gates, were pale, emaciated women and young girls, in whom was left no youth, for in truth their hard lives had served to age them before their time. With thin, white hands they stretched out their offerings of flowers to sell the pa.s.ser-by--bright spring flowers--crocuses, daffodils and violets, whose freshness and purity served only to enhance the miserable aspect of their vendors.

In verity it was a scene of velvet and rags, satin and sackcloth, riches and poverty: Lazarus looking longingly at Dives, and Dives going on his way unheeding.

At the marble arch entrance to the Park there stood this afternoon a tall, rather melancholy looking man, dressed in deep mourning. He was watching, with apparently little interest, the busy throng about them.

From time to time he lifted his hat in a mechanical manner as he recognized some acquaintance, but there was nothing enthusiastic in his greetings. He had been standing at the entrance for about half-an-hour, when he was roused from his state of abstraction by a tremendous slap on the back, and a st.u.r.dy voice, which said:

"h.e.l.lo! McAllister, old boy, how are you? Why are you star-gazing here?

Wake up, old boy, wake up!"

"Oh! Jack, how are you?" said McAllister, for he it was, turning round sharply. "I'm glad to see you. I thought you were in France."

"Well, so I was, but the fellow I went with couldn't speak a word of French, and you know I can't. We started on this walking tour through the Pyrenees, where no English is spoken. The consequence was that we were nearly starved--couldn't make the people understand. I got tired of making signs, as if I were a deaf mute, so I just turned back and came home, and here I am."

"How are Lady Severn and Miss Elsie?"

"Both very well, thank you. Elsie is enjoying her season thoroughly. I never saw such a girl before in my life. She is out morning, noon and night. I declare she tires me out, and I can't begin to keep pace with her. One ball at nine, another at ten; rush, rush, all the time, it is terrible. She has the const.i.tution of a horse, I believe."

"Not very complimentary to Miss Elsie," said Noel laughing.

"True, nevertheless. I say, McAllister, you look very glum. What is the matter with you? Oh! ah! I beg your pardon, I--I----What an a.s.s I am, always putting my foot into it. Pray forgive me."

"Yes," said Noel, "it was very sad. You know, Lady Margaret always would drive those ponies; we could not prevent her. She was determined to break them in, and, when she decided on a thing, she always carried her point.

That morning, she drove to the Glen; the precipice there is very steep, and something frightened the ponies, and--and you know the rest."

"Yes, yes," said Jack shuddering, "I heard it all. I am very sorry for you, old boy. Lady Margaret was very kind to me. She used to scold me occasionally, but I expect I deserved it. No, no, don't talk about it any more. You must cheer up, old boy. Come with me to the opera to-night.

Mademoiselle Laurentia is going to sing in 'Aida.'"

"Mademoiselle Laurentia?"

"Yes, don't you remember her? She was up at Mount Severn last autumn."

"Oh, yes! I remember her well enough; but, Jack, I can't go to the opera, much as I should like it. You see it would not look well," touching the c.r.a.pe band on his hat.

"No, no, of course not," said Jack hurriedly; "pray pardon me, how stupid I am; but I know what we can do. I have tickets for a conversazione at the Academy to-morrow--there can be no harm in your going to that. I hear there are some very good things at the Academy this year."

"Yes, so I heard, I have not been there yet."

"Every one is in ecstasies over a painting by a man called Lacroix; they say it's the best thing that has been on view for a long time."

"What! painted by a man called Eugene Lacroix? Does he come from Father Point?"

"Yes. My dear McAllister, you Canadians are having it all your own way in London this year. Whether it is this Colonial Exhibition, or whether you are all extremely gifted people, I don't know."

"What is Eugene Lacroix like?" asked The McAllister. "I used to know him a long time ago. He was a quiet sort of man then."

"He is quiet yet. He won't go out anywhere, but works, works all the time. Sometimes he comes to tea at my mother's on Sunday afternoon, but that is the only time we see anything of him. Mademoiselle Laurentia introduced him to us. All the Academy people speak well of him, strange to say, for he is a foreigner, and they are prejudiced against outsiders, as a rule. He has had several things hung at the _Salon_ in Paris, and a head he painted of Mademoiselle Laurentia made a great hit last spring.

But, old boy, I must be going now, I've got to take Elsie to a dinner party to-night. Fearful bore, but when duty calls me, I always obey.

You'll come with me to-morrow, eh? Then just drive round to the house at two o'clock sharp. Au revoir."

"Stop a moment, Jack. Can you give me Mademoiselle Laurentia's address?"

"Yes, certainly, Number 17, The Grove Highgate. Are you going to see her?

It always struck me that you and she didn't get on very well last autumn at Mount Severn."