"Yes, that is imperative."

"What is she like?"

"Oh, she is like herself, no one else I ever saw. I'm not good at descriptions, especially of ladies. She has yellow hair, I can tell you that."

"Yellow hair--yes, yes; but her disposition, her character? Is she amiable?"

"Well, I don't think that amiable is quite the word to apply to Lady Margaret. She is self-reliant, sensible, a thorough woman of business, and the very one to help you on in the world."

"Oh, indeed; but if I ever possess Dunmorton I shall be helped on enough."

"What! have you no wish for more? Would you not like to go into Parliament to make a name for yourself? Your cousin could help you in that. They say she used to write all her father's speeches, and very good speeches they were."

"And Marie Gourdon?" said Noel slowly. "What of her? How can I leave her?"

"Oh, nonsense!" said the little lawyer impatiently; "really I wonder at a man of your sense hesitating in such a matter. This Marie will get over it; all girls do. It's only a matter of time. She'll forget all about you in a month."

Noel's thoughts went back to the scene on the beach two evenings ago, and he did not consider it at all probable that Marie Gourdon would ever forget him. At any rate, he did not care to entertain the possibility.

"Yes," went on Webster, "I don't see that you can have any hesitation.

Here you are, at the opening of your life, offered one of the finest chances I ever heard of, hesitating because of a little French girl.

Umph! I've no patience with you, but, young man, you've got to decide before to-morrow's mail goes out. I must write to Lady McAllister.

Good-bye I'm going for a walk to the light-house. The keeper is a most interesting man, and a great mathematician. Good-bye. I hope next time I see you you'll have come to your senses."

And Webster walked off, evidently imagining that there could be no hesitation about the matter of the inheritance.

The whole of that day was a miserable failure to Noel McAllister. He had one of those natures which hate making a decision. He was restless, and could settle down to nothing, and walked up and down his mother's little verandah like a caged animal. He could not bear the thought of giving up Marie, yet, on the other hand, he could not bear the thought of giving up his inheritance. It was too tempting. To leave forever the monotony of a life at Father Point, to plunge all at once into luxury and riches, that was a dazzling prospect, with only Marie Gourdon on the other side to counter-balance these attractions. And she had been so slow in telling him she cared for him that even now he half doubted whether she really did, in spite of the truthfulness in her great brown eyes, when she repeated the refrain of that old French song. And the lawyer had said she would forget in a month, like all other girls, and she was not different from other girls. Yes, it was a difficult question to decide, there was no doubt about that. He despised himself for thinking of giving up Marie, the mere thought horrified him, and yet--Dunmorton, ease, riches, luxury!

To give all these up without a struggle would have been difficult, even to a more heroic nature than Noel McAllister's.

There was not long, however, for him to decide the question, and as evening came on, and he thought that by next morning the die must be cast one way or the other, his head ached with the effort of anxious thought.

Fresh air he felt he must have, so he went out from the cottage, and walked hurriedly down the road.

The moon was shining cold and clear, showing distinctly the delicate tracery of each branch and leaf overhanging the pathway. The cold, clear light threw into strong relief each giant maple tree darkly looming against the silvery evening sky.

McAllister walked hurriedly on, deeply thinking, for about a quarter of a mile. His head was bent, and he saw nothing, so absorbed was he in his own meditations. Presently, however, a figure crossed his path.

He started, and looked up to see a girl in a red cloak standing in the pathway. She stopped before him. It was Marie Gourdon, the last person in the world he wished to meet just then.

"Marie, my dear one," he said, "what are you doing out so far alone, and at this hour too? Come; let me take you home."

"Noel, I came to see you. I hoped to have met you. I have something important to say to you."

"Indeed, Marie, what can it be? You should have sent for me. You cannot talk to me here. Let me take you home, and then you can tell me."

"No, no," said Marie persistently. "Jean and my father are in the house, and I wish to speak to you alone, and what I am going to tell you I must say to-night."

"What is this tremendous secret?"

She did not answer the question but said abruptly:

"M. Bois-le-Duc tells me you are going away."

"Going away? Um--um--I don't know," Noel replied hesitatingly. "I think not. No no, M. Bois-le-Duc makes a great mistake."

"You are not going away?" said the girl, a glad light coming into her eyes. "What, Noel you have not come into this fortune?"

"Oh! yes, there is no doubt about that; but there are conditions, and I can't accept them."

"What are the conditions?"

"One is that I shall have to leave you, to give you up."

"Noel, there would be no need of that."

"Why, what do you mean, Marie?"

"I give _you_ up," said Marie proudly. "I could never stand in your way of advancement."

"Marie, did you not say to me most solemnly only the other night:

'Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai.'"

"What has that to do with it, Noel? That does not alter the case. It is just because of that I will not let you stay here. You may think it an easy thing to decide now, but in after years you would regret remaining here. With your gifts, your ambition, you would be thrown away. No, Noel, _I_ bid you go. You must not stay. Good-bye, dear one, for the last time.

You must tell them to-morrow that you will go."

"It is impossible," said Noel, in an angry tone. "You can never have cared for me to give me up in a moment like this."

"You know that is not true, Noel. I can see into the future, and it is just because I do care so much for you that I do not wish you to waste your life here." She spoke with an effort, and as if she were repeating a lesson learned beforehand.

"No, that is not it," said Noel; "I am perfectly sure you never cared for me or you could not give me up like this in a moment."

The girl did not answer for a time, for she was deeply wounded at his want of understanding, his non-comprehension of her most unselfish motives. Presently she turned to him, and said in a hurried tone, for she could scarcely control herself just then, "Noel, believe me it is for the best. Good-bye."

Before he had time to answer she had walked swiftly away, and was hid from his sight by the turn of the road. All had happened so quickly, the momentous decision had been made so entirely without effort on his part, that his breath was fairly taken away. But, beneath all his surprise and wounded pride was a feeling of relief scarce acknowledged to himself, though his first exclamation was one of distressed self-love, as he exclaimed angrily, "She has no feeling; she does not care."

Ah! M. Bois-le-Duc, your training of Noel McAllister was at fault somewhere. You grounded him thoroughly in Latin and the cla.s.sics, but you taught him little of the study of human character, that most profoundly interesting of all studies. Had your teaching been different, Noel McAllister might have had a different estimation of the depths of a nature like Marie Gourdon's, of a woman's true unselfish devotion. He might have made an effort to keep what he had already won--which was above all price. Had your teaching not failed in this one essential point, Noel McAllister's life and career would have been far different.

Well for him had it been so!

CHAPTER VII.

"O world! thy slippery turns! Friends, now fast sworn in love inseparable, shall within this hour break out to bitterest enmity."

Coriola.n.u.s, Act iv., Scene iv.