"O world! thy slippery turns! Friends, now fast sworn in love
inseparable, shall within this hour break out to bitterest enmity."
Coriolanus, Act iv., Scene iv.
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
Noël, Marie Gourdon, Pierre, her father, Jean, her brother, and M.
Bois-le-Duc. What was the matter with M. le curé 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! Noël, 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 Noël
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 passengers aboard!"
During all this bustle Noël 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, Noël, 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 curé 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 curé'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 Noël 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 curé 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 passed, and during these two hours Marie fought out her battle
with herself. When M. le curé 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 curé, 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."