Chapter 8

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."