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, Noël. 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.
Noël 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, Noël," 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 Noël, 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."
"Who is she? Another of old Lady Severn's _protégées_, I suppose. All her
swans turn out geese. I only hope this one will not be a worse failure
than usual."
"You at least, Noël, ought to be interested in Mademoiselle Laurentia,
for she comes from your part of the world--from the backwoods of Canada."
"Really?" he questioned, with some show of interest at last.
"Yes; and Elsie Severn began to tell me some romantic story about her
which I can't remember, for, just as she was at the most exciting part,
Jones came in and related the account of the arrears in the Mackays'
rent, and that put all Elsie's story out of my head."
"Yes, my dear, you have a faculty of remembering all the disagreeable
things and forgetting all the pleasant ones. This adds much to your
worth as a charming companion. I, who am honored with so much of your
society, fully appreciate this quality."
Fortunately Lady Margaret did not hear this tender speech, for she was
again deep in the recalcitrant Jones' accounts.
Let us glance for a moment at Noël McAllister, and see how years and
prosperity have agreed with him. Lazily smoking in a comfortable
arm-chair, this man is very different from the tall and slender youth we
saw last on the pier at Rimouski.
He certainly had improved in appearance, and was a tall, fine-looking man
of about five-and-thirty. He wore a light-colored tweed shooting suit,
which contrasted well with his dark hair and bronzed complexion. A
remarkably handsome man was The McAllister of Dunmorton, but to a close
observer there was something lacking in his face--the old weakness about
the mouth and chin, which time, instead of eradicating, had only served
to develop. The hard school of adversity would have been a wholesome
experience for Noël McAllister.
His life was not a busy one by any means: in fact, he spent most of his
time in hunting or shooting, taking little interest in his tenants.
After much persuasion from Lady Margaret, he had been induced to run for
the county, and was returned unopposed, owing to the energetic canvassing
of his wife, and the fact that most of the electors were his own tenants.
Poor Lady Margaret! she, indeed, had her trials. A woman of unbounded
energy and ambition, she wished above all things that her husband should
make his mark in the world. Vain hope!--a silent member in the House of
Commons he was, and a silent member he would remain.
When he first arrived from Canada, ten years ago, his cousin anticipated
great things from him. She saw his strong points as well as his
weaknesses, and, being by some years his senior, hoped to mould him to
her will. Alas! it was like beating against a stone wall--a wall of
indifference and apathy.
McAllister had got his estate and the large revenue it yielded, and that
was all he wanted. Lady Margaret was an appendage, and a very tiresome
one into the bargain. She could not touch his sympathies, for whatever
heart he ever had was far across the sea, where the cold green waters of
the great St. Lawrence beat in unceasing murmur against the rocky beach
at Father Point.
McAllister heard occasionally from his mother, whom he had often begged
to come over to Scotland to share his prosperity, but the old lady always
refused, saying that she was too old to venture so far from home.
He had written several times to M. Bois-le-Duc, but never had received
any answer or news of the curé until a year ago, when a friar from Quebec
had come to Scotland on a visit, and had brought a letter of introduction
from the curé of Father Point to McAllister. The letter consisted only of
a few short lines. Noël had often questioned his mother about Marie
Gourdon, but on this subject the old lady was silent,--it is so easy to
leave questions unanswered in letters.
"Margaret," Noël called out suddenly, rousing himself from his
meditations, "I am going out now, and I shall not be back till five
o'clock. I am going to ride up the Glen."
"Very well, but remember to be back in time to dress for dinner. Last
time we were invited to the Severn's you were half an hour late, and
Lady Severn has not forgiven you yet."
"Oh! all right. I shall be strictly on time this evening, and trust to
make my peace with the old lady. Au revoir."