"I know, dear heart! that in our lot
May mingle tears and sorrow;
But love's rich rainbow's built from tears
To-day, with smiles to [**-?]morrow.
The sunshine from our sky may die,
The greenness from life's tree,
But ever 'mid the warring storm
Thy nest shall shelter'd be.
The world may never know, dear heart!
What I have found in thee;
But, though naught to the world, dear heart!
Thou'rt all the world to me."
Gerald Massey.
Mademoiselle Laurentia was sitting at her five o'clock tea-table, a
dainty little wicker-work affair, covered with delicate china of palest
pink, blue and green tints. The cups and saucers were clustered
invitingly round a huge old-fashioned silver teapot, and, on the nob of
the little fire-place a kettle was singing away merrily. A great rug of
white bear-skin was stretched on the floor, and curled up comfortably
in its warmest corner lay a large Persian cat, which, at the entrance of
the visitor, merely turned languidly to see whether he had a dog, and
then sank into sleep again.
A very homelike scene it was that Eugène Lacroix was ushered upon that
summer afternoon, and the greeting of his hostess set him at once at his
ease.
"How do you feel, Mr. Lacroix, to-day, after all your triumphs yesterday?
You received quite an ovation at the reception."
"Oh, I feel very well, indeed, thank you; this fresh country air puts new
life into one. You were wise, mademoiselle, to choose your home in such a
spot."
"Yes, I think I did well, though the place has its drawbacks. It is a
long way from London and the opera. Still, I could not bear to live quite
in town; the air there stifles me. After the clear bracing air of Canada,
I find London very oppressive. But, M. Lacroix, you must be tired after
your long walk up the hill. Do take that comfortable arm-chair and let me
give you a cup of tea."
"Yes, gladly; tea is one of my weaknesses. Oh! how I missed it in Paris.
It is almost impossible to get a good cup of tea there."
"I always make mine myself, and have it regularly at five o'clock, and,
even now, I still keep the fire lighted here, for the evenings are apt to
be chilly, and I have to take care of my throat. That is _my_ fortune,
you know."
"Yes, it is indeed, mademoiselle. How strange that all three of the
curé's pupils should have succeeded so well in life, and all so far from
their own land."
"It is indeed strange. That thought has often occurred to me, too," said
Marie, musingly.
"But," went on Lacroix, "though, of course, I like London and Paris and
all this excitement for a time, I often pine for our fresh Canadian
breezes, for the dash of the Gulf against the rocks at Father Point! City
life is so trammelled, and I long for the unconventional home life from
which I have been removed so long."
"Ah! I see you have _mal de pays_; you see I know the symptoms," said
Marie, smiling.
"Yes, I suppose it must be that."
"But how delighted you must be at the success of your picture. I saw by
this morning's paper that it was bought by the prince."
"Of course, I am glad of my success. True, it has come late in life; but
still it _has_ come. But I shall miss my picture very much."
"Naturally."
"However, I shall soon see the reality again. I am going home for a
holiday next month."
"Indeed? How I envy you."
"Yes, I am really going, and I am counting the days until it is time to
sail. But, mademoiselle, I am forgetting to show you M. Bois-le-Duc's
letter. I have it with me; shall I leave it here?"
"No, M. Lacroix. I am very lazy this afternoon, and if you would read it
to me while I just sit in this comfortable arm-chair and do nothing but
listen, I should enjoy that above all things."
"Certainly, mademoiselle; nothing would please me better. I imagine your
days of laziness, as you call it, are few and far between. Now, I will
begin. The letter is dated Father Point, April 20th, 1887:--
"My Dear Eugène,
"I was very pleased to receive your last letter, and more than pleased
to hear of your success; but the news that delighted me most of all
was to hear that you were coming here this summer.
"What you tell me about my brother is very satisfactory; I knew he
would be kind to you. I like to think of you as you describe yourself
sitting in the great hall of the Hôtel Bois-le-Duc, in Paris, where I
spent so many happy days. I knew you and the marquise would have many
subjects in common, and, as you say, she is one of the ladies of the
old school, now alas! past, yet she can sympathize with Bohemianism,
provided that talent is allied with it. She is a woman good as
she is charming, and highly cultivated. True, I have not seen my
sister-in-law for years, but her letters to me are as clever and
interesting as those of Madame de Stael, and I know from them how
her mind, instead of being dimmed with advancing years, has developed
with every day.
"Your description of the old garden, with its rippling fountains and
quaint _parterres_, reminds me of the days of my youth, when my mother
gave her receptions there. Yes, my dear pupil, the halls of that old
house and the old-fashioned garden have been the scene of many
gay gatherings in the olden time, when France had a true aristocracy.
And not only stately dames and courtiers thronged to the Hôtel
Bois-le-Duc, but the foremost minds of the day lent brilliancy to my
mother's _salons_. Wits, authors, poets, artists, statesmen, whose
words could change the fate of Europe, were proud to call the marquise
friend. I am an old man now, and you must forgive an old man's
prosiness; but a little sadness comes into my thoughts when I muse on
the past. How many of those illustrious souls, then so full of life
and power, remain? And I, long exiled from all I cherished, how have I
progressed? No, no, Eugène; not even to you would I complain. What has
a faithful follower of the Cross to do with the vanities of this
world?
"It is one of my temptations, still, to think on what might have been
had I not chosen the hard road, had I not renounced the gay world and
its fascinations, for it had, and _has_ fascinations yet for me.
Eugène, my reward will be hereafter; but, as an old man, and one who
has endeavored to do his duty for many years, I often wonder whether I
mistook my vocation. But away with such doubts, they are a snare of
the arch-enemy himself, a subtle snare.
"My dear pupil, hard as it was to let you go, I am glad you left me. I
knew those years of labor _must_ tell in the end. I knew so much zeal
could not be thrown away.
"Of Marie Gourdon, all you tell me is most satisfactory. When first I
sent her to fight her way in the world, I had fears. In her profession
there are so many evil influences to contend with that, in spite of
her undoubted talent, I hesitated before letting her go. But I need
not have feared. Marie Gourdon has one of those pure white souls----"
"Perhaps I had better not go on?" said Eugène, smiling.
Marie nodded and murmured half to herself--"Dear M. Bois-le-Duc, I am
glad to hear he thinks so well of me. Please continue."
"--one of those pure white souls that can pass through the fire of any
temptation and come out purer, stronger, holier. She has doubly repaid
me for any pains I took with her education. Long ago she insisted on
returning the money spent on her training, and every year regularly,
she sends me two hundred dollars to be spent on the poor suffering
pilgrims, who come to the church at Father Point. Yes, I am justly
proud of two of my pupils; the disappointment I suffer because of the
conduct of the third only serves to heighten the contrast. I beg of
you never to mention his name again to me. Never allude to Noël
McAllister in your letters in the slightest way. The manner in which
he treated----"
Here Lacroix hesitated, grew very red and lost his place.
Marie, observing his distress, remarked placidly: "Please go on, I do not
mind; that is all a closed page in my history."
"The manner in which he treated," continued Lacroix, "that poor girl
was unpardonable. At an age, too, when she should have
been most carefully guarded, when her feelings were most sensitive,
he, for all he knew to the contrary, broke her heart. And, under the
cowardly pretence that it was she who bade him go, he left her to
live, for aught he cared, a dreary, colorless existence at Father
Point.
"Fortunately Marie was a girl of no ordinary stamp. She could rise
above disappointments--remember, I do not say forget them; and she
threw her whole energies into her art. I am a priest, and know human
nature, its weakness and its strength--and human nature is the same
all the world over--and I can honestly say that the daughter of the
fisherman at Father Point is the noblest woman I have ever met.
"I can feel no interest in what you tell me of Noël McAllister. As I
said before, I do not wish you to mention him. Madame McAllister died
last week, very calmly and peacefully. We laid her in the churchyard
beside her husband and his ancestors. She had been very frail of late
years, but of course she was a great age, ninety-six.
"You will scarcely know Father Point when you return. An enterprising
merchant from Montreal has built a large summer hotel on the Point,
and hopes to attract crowds of visitors during the warm weather.
"Of course you have heard of the honor conferred on our Archbishop.
I went up to Quebec to attend the ceremony when they gave him his
Cardinal's hat, and he is soon to visit my humble parish, and I trust
will approve of our progress, both in things spiritual and temporal.
"Hoping to see you soon, and with every good wish for your safe voyage,
"Believe me, as ever,
"Your very sincere friend,
"Réné Bois-le-Duc,
"Curé of Father Point, Province of Quebec, Canada."
* * * * *
"Dear M. Bois-le-Duc," repeated Marie, "I am glad he thinks so well of
me. The approval of one true friend like that is worth more than all the
applause I get night after night at the opera. He knows me for myself;
they only recognize my art and the pleasure it affords them."
"Yes; you were always a first favorite with the curé," said Lacroix.
"How angry he is with Noël McAllister; needlessly so. _I_ have forgiven
him long ago."
"Have you, indeed? And have you heard about Lady Margaret?"
"Yes. Mr. McAllister did me the honor of calling on me the other day."
"Noël McAllister called on you, Marie?"
The old name slipped out accidentally, and, in his excitement, he did not
notice the mistake.
"Yes."
"And he told you about Lady Margaret, about his wife being dead?"
"Yes."
"Was that all he told you?"
Marie looked rather surprised at being cross-questioned in this abrupt
manner; but replied quietly:--
"No; it was not all. He told me much more."
"Yes! yes!" said Lacroix, with the persistency of a cross-examining
lawyer, "And you Marie, what did you say?"
"If you really want to know exactly what I said, my words were to the
effect that I had no time to reopen a closed chapter in my life, and
that my carriage was at the door."
A strange expression, almost of relief, with surprise mingled, crossed
the artist's grave face, and he did not speak for a moment. Then he
said, slowly, in a tone of half-pitying contempt:
"Poor McAllister! What with you and M. Bois-le-Duc, he is not a very
enviable person."
"Then you are sorry for him?"
"Pardon me, I am not. I have only one feeling towards him, and that would
be wiser to keep to myself. Marie, long ago, at Father Point, I saw it
all, though you imagined I was so taken up with my painting and my own
affairs. I knew McAllister was wholly unworthy of the respect and
affection you and M. Bois-le-Duc lavished on him.
"I knew him better than either of you, his weakness, his indecision; but
it was not for me to warn you, how could I? Then, Marie, changes came to
all of us. McAllister came into his inheritance; you went to seek your
fortune; I to work hard in a merchant's office in Montreal. For four
years, I labored there at most uncongenial work, but I managed to scrape
enough together to pay for my course of study at the school of one of the
best masters in Paris. These years of drudgery in Montreal and Paris were
only brightened by one hope--a hope I scarcely dared acknowledge to
myself, so vain did it appear."
"Yes," said Marie. "But you have succeeded, and your hope has been
realized."
"It has not been realized; it is as far from realization as ever."
"I am astonished to hear you speak in such a way after your brilliant
success of yesterday."
"Yes, success is satisfactory, and it is a means to an end in this case.
Marie, my dear one, through all those long years of drudgery I heard of
you only through M. Bois-le-Duc at rare intervals. But, through all that
weary time, I never ceased to think of you, though as one far, far
removed from me. Then you rose to fame and wealth; to me, a poor
struggling artist, further off than ever, and for a time I despaired. You
were fêted by the highest in the land, all London was at your feet--what
had I to do with the brilliant prima donna? What claim had I to remind
her of the old days at Father Point, of my life-long devotion? Oh! Marie,
my darling, to keep silence, to think that I might lose you after all,
was almost unendurable. Now, though, I _can_ speak. I, too, have achieved
success as the world counts it. We may now, on that score, meet as
equals. Were it not so, I should keep silence always. Marie, I have loved
you ever since I knew you. I have watched with interest your whole
career, your failures, your successes. I dare not hope my affection is
returned--that is too much--and I must ask pardon for having spoken to
you to-day."
The self-possessed prima donna had been very still while Lacroix spoke,
and sat shading her face with one hand, and, strange to say, endeavoring
to hide the tears which would come in spite of her efforts.
"Marie, speak, my dear one. Have I distressed you? Oh! Marie, I should
not have spoken, only the thought of putting the Atlantic between us
without telling you was too hard, Marie."
"Eugène, why should you put the Atlantic between us?" said Marie, and
something in the expression of her face gave him courage to ask--
"Marie, I am going to Father Point next month. Will you come with me?"
"Yes, Eugène, with you anywhere," placing her hands in his, a look of
perfect rest and peace coming over her sweet, care-worn face.
"Remember, Marie," he said gravely, "it is no small thing I ask--to give
up your place at the opera, to sacrifice the applause of the world and
the pleasing excitement of your life."
"I am tired of it all, Eugène, it is such an empty life."
"And I may be in Canada a whole year--think of it, a year away from
London. You must consider all this, and, my dear one, I am not a rich
man."
"But I am rich," she said laughing, "very rich, and I never was so glad
of it before. Now, have you any more objections to make, for I am
beginning to think you don't want me to go to Father Point with you after
all."
That night at the opera Mademoiselle Laurentia, the critics said,
surpassed herself, though, strange occurrence for usually one so
punctual, she kept the audience waiting for a quarter of an hour. Never
before had she sung so well.
Great was the indignation of Monsieur Scherzo, her manager, when next day
she told him that after this month she would sing no more in public. He
swore, he stormed, he tore his hair, and finding threats were in vain he
wept in his excitable fashion, but neither threats nor entreaties moved
mademoiselle from her decision. "Bah!" he said, "it is the way with them
all, a woman can never be a true artist. Directly she rises to any height
she goes off and gets married, ten to one to some idiot, who interferes
in all her arrangements, and so her career is spoiled. I did think
Mademoiselle Laurentia was above such frivolity. I imagined that, at
last, I had discovered a true artist, one to whom her art was everything.
No, I am again mistaken, and Mademoiselle Laurentia--why, she is not even
going to marry a duke, there might be some sense in that, but only a
beggarly artist. Bah! what folly!"
Some six weeks later, one sunny afternoon, there came up the Gulf of St.
Lawrence a ship crowded with passengers bound for all quarters of the
great Dominion. It had been a backward season, and even so late as the
beginning of July great icebergs were still floating down the Gulf, huge,
white and glistening in the summer sun, as they floated on to their
destruction in the southern seas. However, the good ship "Vancouver"
passed safely through the perils of storms and icebergs, and after a
fairly prosperous passage of ten days arrived safely at Rimouski. There
she paused for a few hours to let off the mails and two passengers.
These two passengers had been the cause of a great deal of gossip and
attention on the voyage out, for they were both, in their different
spheres, celebrated personages, and known to fame on both sides of the
Atlantic. It seemed rather strange that they should land at a little
out-of-the-way place like Rimouski.
"Oh!" exclaimed one of the celebrities, a little lady clad in furs. "Oh,
Eugène, everything is just the same as it used to be in the old days, and
look over there on the pier is M. Bois-le-Duc."
Yes, there stood the tall, venerable priest, his hair now snowy white,
and his shoulders bent under the weight of years. But the good curé was
energetic as of old, and his eyes gleamed with excitement as the ship
approached. His hands were stretched out in welcome, and a smile of most
intense happiness lighted up his handsome features, and, as the
travellers stepped from the gangway to the pier, he went quickly forward
to greet them, exclaiming, in his bright cheery manner:--
"Eugène, Marie, my children, welcome home, a thousand times welcome.
Heaven has indeed been good to me. My heart's desire is now fulfilled."
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
shore, 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, Noël 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 pass 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. Noël 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 Eugène 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 Mass at the pilots' church. There may be heard
the clear, sweet notes of the favorite pupil of the good curé, who, after
a life spent in good works, has passed 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 Réné Bois-le-Duc, curé of
Father Point.