"I can feel no interest in what you tell me of Noel 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, "Rene Bois-le-Duc, "Cure 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 cure," said Lacroix.

"How angry he is with Noel 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."

"Noel 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 feted 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."

"Eugene, 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, Eugene, 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, Eugene, 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, surpa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sengers 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"

pa.s.sed safely through the perils of storms and icebergs, and after a fairly prosperous pa.s.sage of ten days arrived safely at Rimouski. There she paused for a few hours to let off the mails and two pa.s.sengers.

These two pa.s.sengers 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, Eugene, 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 cure 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:--

"Eugene, Marie, my children, welcome home, a thousand times welcome.

Heaven has indeed been good to me. My heart's desire is now fulfilled."