"Did it strike you in that way?"

"Yes, it did, and I couldn't help noticing that whenever you came in one door she seemed to go out of the other; in fact, old boy, I'm sure she didn't like you much."

"Are you?"

"Yes, and Elsie thought just as I do."

"Indeed, you are wonderfully observant, Jack. I did not credit you with such powers of perspicacity."

"I don't know what you mean by that, but I can see through a stone wall as well as any one else, though I was always very stupid at school."

"Well, perhaps what you say may be true, Jack, but I'm going to call on Mademoiselle Laurentia. You know we Canadians are very patriotic."

"I admire you for your forgiving disposition. If you really want to see Mademoiselle Laurentia, the only time to catch her in is between five and six. Good-bye, old fellow, I must be off. Don't forget to-morrow at two o'clock sharp."

After Jack went, McAllister hesitated for a moment, then glanced at his watch, hailed a pa.s.sing hansom, jumped in, and called out to the driver, "Go to 17, The Grove, Highgate. A sovereign if you get there before six o'clock."

The cabman shook his head doubtfully and said, "I'll try my best, sir, but I'm afraid I can't do it. It's a long way off, you know."

He did try his best at any rate, and off they went at break-neck speed, on! on! on! past rows and rows of houses, past wildernesses of brick and mortar. Far behind them they left churches, hospitals, buildings innumerable, the mansions of the rich and the wretched dwellings of the poor, the squalid habitations of outcast London, on! on! on! Up the great hill of Highgate, where the tender green foliage of early summer and of the great oak trees bordered the roadside, and where the almond blossoms perfumed all the heated air with a subtle delicate fragrance, on! on! on!

Quickly they dashed past many an historic spot, past the house where Coleridge lived, past the walls of the great cemetery, which contains the ashes of hundreds of ill.u.s.trious dead, past the little church, perched on the summit of the hill, from whose belfry could be heard the chimes for evensong, coming faintly on the still air; on! on! on!

But it is a long lane that has no turning, and at length the hansom drew up before a little cottage far back from the road. A long porch of lattice-work led up to the front door, and tall elm trees shaded the little garden. It was a pleasant enough little abode on the outside at any rate, sheltered from the noise and bustle of the great city.

"No. 17, The Grove, sir," called out the cabman, breathless, but triumphant, "and it's only five minutes to six."

"Well done," said McAllister, "here's your well-earned sovereign. Now take your horse to the stables over there and wait for me."

The cabman departed radiant, wondering over such unwonted generosity, and musing as to the rank and wealth of his fare.

McAllister knocked at the door of the cottage, and presently it was opened by a neat maid-servant, who, in answer to his inquiry, said:

"I am afraid, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia will not be able to see you.

What name shall I say, please, sir?"

"Oh, say I'm a Canadian. I have no cards with me; but I have come on a matter of the utmost importance, and I must see your mistress."

"Very well, sir; please walk up this way," and the maid led the way to Mademoiselle Laurentia's boudoir.

It was a dainty little room furnished in blue and silver. On the walls hung numerous water-colors and engravings, showing that the prima donna had an artistic eye.

McAllister had not long to wait before the mistress of the house came in.

She was dressed for her part in "Aida," and wore an Egyptian robe of soft white cashmere, embroidered in dull gold silk with a quaint conventional pattern. Her gown was slightly open at the throat, round which was a necklace of dull gold beads. Heavy bracelets of the same material encircled her arms, and a row of them held back her dark brown hair, which fell in heavy ma.s.ses far below her knees.

She came into the room with her hands stretched out in welcome, but at the sight of McAllister drew back looking surprised.

"How do you do, Mr. McAllister," she said, in a formal tone. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Pray pardon my theatrical dress, but I have such a long drive into town that I am obliged to dress early."

"Certainly, Marie; your dress is very becoming; in fact, you look altogether charming."

"Mr. McAllister, before you speak again, I think I may tell you that once before I have had to remind you that only to my most intimate friends am I known as Marie Gourdon."

"Am I not your friend? I have known you all your life."

"I do not wish to continue that subject; and pardon me, Mr. McAllister, if I seem rude, but it is now past six o'clock, and I must leave here in twenty minutes. It is a long drive into town, and I must be at the opera on time."

"I have something very important to say to you. My wife is dead."

"What! Lady Margaret dead? I am really very sorry to hear that. She was always very kind to me. Poor Lady Margaret."

"And do you know, Marie, what her death means to me?"

"No, I don't quite follow you, Mr. McAllister. You say your wife is dead, I suppose you _mean_ she is dead."

"Yes, yes, of course," replied Noel irritably, "but it means more. It means that I am free."

"Free! What do you mean?"

"Marie, can you ask me that? Can you pretend not to understand? For the last ten years my life has been a burden to me. The thought of you has ever been with me. The memories of Father Point, of the happy days spent there, haunt me always. And now, Marie, I have come to tell you that Dunmorton is yours, the Glen is yours, all that I have is yours, and Marie _I_ am yours."

During this outburst Marie Gourdon's face grew at first crimson, then very white, and for a moment she did not answer; then she rose from her chair, and, looking straight at The McAllister, said in a very quiet tone, without the faintest touch of anger in it:

"Noel McAllister, you are strangely mistaken in me. Do you think I am exactly the same person I was ten years ago? Do you think I am the same little country girl whose heart you won so easily and threw aside when better prospects offered?"

"Marie, it was you who bade me go."

"Yes, I bade you go. What else could I do? I saw you wished to be free.

I saw that my feelings, yes--if you will have the truth--my love for you weighed as nothing in the scale against your newly-found fortune. I saw you waver, hesitate. _I_ did not hesitate. And now I am rich, I am famous, you come to me. You offer me that worthless thing,--your love.

When I was poor, struggling alone, friendless, did you even write to me?

Did you by word or look recognize me? No! The farce is played out. I wonder at your coming to see me after all."

"Marie, listen; a word----"

"No, not one word, Noel McAllister. I have said all I shall ever say to you. Dunmorton, the Glen, all your possessions are very fine things, but there are others I value infinitely more. Dear me! is that half-past six striking? I believe I hear the carriage at the door. I must beg of you to excuse me. You know my duties are pressing, and managers wait for no one.

Good-evening, Mr. McAllister."

CHAPTER XI.

"Because thou hast believed the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round; Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become Laborious, persevering, serious, firm-- For this thy track across the fretful foam Of vehement actions without scope or term, Call'd history, keeps a splendor, due to wit, Which saw one clue to life and followed it."

Matthew Arnold.

The day so long anxiously looked for of the great reception at the Royal Academy came at last. Fortunately the weather was beautiful, and the sun shone on the London streets with an unusual brightness even for that time of year.