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MARIE GOURDON:
A Romance of the Lower St. Lawrence.
by
MAUD OGILVY
Montreal:
Published by John Lovell & Son
1890
TO MY FRIEND
Lady Helen Munro-Ferguson of Raith,
THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
_Many happy days spent on the banks of the Lower St. Lawrence._
INTRODUCTION
This little story is founded on an episode in Canadian history which
I found an interesting study, namely, the disbanding of a regiment of
Scottish soldiers in the neighborhood of Rimouski and the district
about Father Point. Many of these stalwart sons of old Scotia who were
thus left adrift strangers in a strange land accepted the situation
philosophically, intermarried amongst the French families already in
that part of the country, and settled down as farmers in a small way.
A visit to that part of the country will show what their industry has
effected.
Before having been in the district, I had always thought that the coasts
of Lower St. Lawrence were almost incapable of any degree of cultivation,
and practically of no agricultural value; but when at Father Point, some
three summers ago, I was delighted to see all along the sandy road-sides
long ridges of ploughed land, with potatoes, cabbages and beans growing
in abundance. Back of these ridges, extending for many miles, are large
tracts of most luxuriant pasture land on which browse cattle in very
excellent condition.
The manners of the people of this district, who, "far from the madding
crowd's ignoble strife," live in Utopian simplicity, are most gentle and
courteous, and would put to shame those of the dwellers of many a more
civilized spot.
It is very curious to trace the Scottish names of these people, handed
down as they have been from generation to generation, though their
pronunciation is much altered, and in most instances given a French turn,
as, for example, Gourdon for Gordon, Noël for Nowell, and many others.
However, in a few cases the names are such as even the most ingenious
French tongue finds impossible to alter, and they remain in their
original form, for example, Burns, Fraser and McAllister. It is strange
to hear these names spoken by people who know no language but the French,
and I was much struck by the incongruity.
M. O.
Montreal, June, 1890.
CONTENTS.
Introduction
I - "Wae's me for Prince Chairlie"
II - "Oh! Canada! mon pays, terre adorée,
Sol si cher à mes amours."
III - "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
IV - "Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away."
V - "A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador),
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore."
VI - "The love of money is the root of all evil."
VII - "Oh! world! thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn in love
inseparable shall within this hour break out to bitterest enmity."
VIII - 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."
IX - "Alas! Our memories may retrace
Each circumstance of time and place;
Season and scene come back again,
And outward things unchanged remain:
The rest we cannot reinstate:
Ourselves we cannot re-create,
Nor get our souls to the same key
Of the remember'd harmony."
X - "O! primavera gioventù dell' anno!
O! gioventù primavera della vitæ!!!"
XI - "Because thou hast believed the wheels of life
Stand never idle, but go always round;
Hast labor'd, 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."
XII - "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 nought to the world, dear heart!
Thou'rt all the world to me."
EPILOGUE.
"Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
The fatal shadows that walk by us still."
MARIE GOURDON.
CHAPTER I.
"Wae's me for Prince Chairlie."
Old Scotch Song.
It was a dark gloomy night in the year 1745. Huge clouds hung in heavy
masses over the sky, ready to discharge their heavy burden at any moment.
The thunder echoed and re-echoed with deafening crashes, as if the whole
artillery of heaven were arrayed in mighty warfare, and shook even the
giant crag on which the castle of Dunmorton was situated.
Fierce indeed was the tempest without, but within the castle raged one
still fiercer - that of two strong natures fighting a bitter battle. So
loud were their voices raised in altercation that the storm without was
scarce heeded.
Dunmorton was a fine old castle of the Norman type, with a large moat
surrounding it, and having all the characteristics appertaining to the
feudal state. To the rear of the moat, behind the castle, stretched broad
lands, on which were scattered many cottages, whose occupants had paid
feu-duty to the Lords of Dunmorton for many a generation. To the left of
these cottages stretched a large pinewood, with thickly grown underbrush,
where, in blissful ignorance of their coming fate, luxuriated golden
pheasants and many a fat brace of partridge. That night, the depths of
the pine forest were shaken, for the storm was worse than usual even for
the east coast of Scotland, where storms are so frequent.
Crossing the drawbridge, and coming to the low Norman arched doorway, one
entered at once into the hall. This was a lofty room some twelve feet
wide. At one end of it was a broad fire-place, where huge resinous pine
logs sent up an odor most grateful to the senses and emitted a pleasant,
fitful blaze, lighting up, ever and anon, the faces of The McAllister and
his second son Ivan.
On the walls hung huge antlers and heads of deer, the trophies of many a
hard day's sport, for they had been a race of sportsmen for generations,
these McAllisters, a hardy, strong, self-reliant people, like their own
harsh mountain breezes.
The two representatives of the race now quarrelling in the hall were both
fine looking men, though of somewhat different types. The McAllister was
a tall old man over six feet in height, well and strongly built. His hair
was iron-grey, his eyes blue and piercing, his nose rather inclined to
the Roman type, his mouth large and determined, and his chin firm, square
and somewhat obstinate. His eyebrows were very thick and bushy, thus
lending to his face a sinister and rather forbidding expression. He wore
a rough home-spun shooting suit, and had folded round his shoulders a
tartan of the McAllister plaid, which from time to time he pushed from
him with a hasty impatient gesture, as he addressed his son in angry,
menacing tones, -
"An' I tell ye, Ivan, though ye be my son, never mair shall I call ye so,
if ye join the rabble that young scamp has got together, and never mair
shall ye darken the doors of Dunmorton if ye gae wi' him. Noo choose
between that young pretender and your ain people."
"Father," said Ivan, "he is not a pretender, of that I am convinced, and
you will be soon. He is the descendant of our own King James VI. (whose
mother was bonnie Queen Mary), and you paid fealty at Holyrood many years
ago to King James. My bonnie Prince Chairlie should by rights be sitting
on the throne of Scotland, aye, and of England too, and, by the help of
Heaven and our guid Scotch laddies, he will be there ere long."
"Never," sneered The McAllister, scornfully. "I am not afraid of that."
"Well, that is comforting to you at any rate, sir; then why care about
my going to join his army, for I am going, nothing can stop me now." And
Ivan McAllister's bonnie face glowed with an enthusiasm almost pathetic
as he thought of his beloved leader, for whom he would stake all his
worldly prospects, aye, and if need be his very life.
"Ivan McAllister," said his father, "I thought ye had mair common sense,
though it is rare in lads o' your age. Ye can never imagine that a pack
o' young idiots are going to overturn the whole country."
"No, sir, I do not, but a mighty army is to join us from the south; in
England Prince Chairlie has many friends, and to-morrow I go to join
them. The next day a mighty host will move to the west coast to welcome
our future King. And then - - "
"Do you know, Ivan, that by your mad folly you seriously endanger the
McAllister estates? An' though it is well known at court that I am not
a Jacobite, yet I have many enemies who will soon tell the King my son
is with the rebels. You endanger, too, your brother Nowell's position at
court."
"Well, father, I have promised to go, and a McAllister never breaks his
word."
"What! you are determined? You persist in your selfish course of folly?
You will go in spite of all I say?"
"Yes, father, I must go, my word is pledged."
The McAllister's ruddy face grew white with anger, he clenched his hands
as if he would strike his son and by main force reduce him to obedience,
then with a great effort he controlled his anger and said in an ominously
calm voice: "Then, Ivan McAllister, I tell ye, never mair shall ye set
foot in this house, at least, when I am above ground; never mair call
yourself son of mine, and may - - " raising his right hand solemnly as
if invoking supernatural aid.
But here he was interrupted by a gentle voice which said:
"Nay, nay, Nowell, ye shall not curse your son," and a soft hand was laid
on his upraised arm.
The McAllister paused and turned towards the speaker, a gentler
expression coming over his stern face, for Lady Jean had the greatest
influence over her husband, an influence which was always for good.
She was a tall, slightly built woman of some fifty-eight years of age.
Her hair was snow-white, contrasting admirably with her clear complexion
and dark eyes, and was combed back high above her forehead, and
surmounted by a mutch (cap) of finest lace. She was dressed in a gown
of pale green silk, which trailed in soft folds behind her and made a
rustling noise as she walked.
A most distinguished lady was Jean McAllister, for the blood of the
Stuarts ran in her veins.
Her face was beautiful, though not altogether with the beauty of correct
features, and certainly not with the beauty of youth, but it had in it
that indescribable loveliness, which one sees only in the faces of very
good women. It was what might be called a helpful face, and had upon it
that reflection of a divine light - all sympathetic natures possess, to
some degree.
"No angel, but a dearer being all dipt in angel instincts,
breathing Paradise."
Her voice was of soft and gentle _timbre_, soothing and tranquillizing
even at this heated moment, as she turned to her son and said: -
"Oh, me bairn, me bonnie bairn, could ye no' stay wi' us a while longer?
It is sair and lonely wi'out ye here, and Prince Chairlie has many mair
to fight for him. Can ye not stay wi' us?"
"No, mother dear; much as I should like to be wi' ye all, I fear I
cannot. A promise is a promise, you know. _You_ have always taught
me that. Remember our motto, 'For God and the truth.' You would not wish
me to be the first McAllister who broke his word."
"Ah! my dear one," sobbed his mother, now fairly breaking down and
weeping piteously, "must ye go, must ye go?"
"Yes, mother dear; but don't distress yourself about me, I shall be all
right, and when bonnie Prince Chairlie comes into his own, we shall meet
again, and you, my ain bonnie mither, will be one of the first ladies at
the court of Holyrood. Now I must go. Father," he said, turning to The
McAllister, who was watching the scene in grim silence with folded arms
and countenance cold and stern. "Father, do you mean what you said just
now? Do you mean to say you will never forgive me if I go to my prince?"
"Yes," the old man thundered out. "Yes, by heaven, I do mean it."
"Then you have driven me for ever from you, and I leave your house
to-night. You are hard, unjust, cruel," and, kissing Lady Jean, hastily,
without more ado, Ivan left the hall. Then he walked swiftly into the
court yard, saddled his favorite horse, and whistling to his collie dog
rode off into the dark tempestuous night to face the unknown.
The unknown is always terrible, but at three and twenty the heart is
light, care is easily shaken off, and hope springs up eternal. A merciful
gift of the good God this, and more especially so in the case of Ivan
McAllister, for, poor lad, he was doomed to have many disappointments.
Some weeks after leaving his father's house, he joined the troops of the
young Pretender, Charles Edward; and three days afterwards was fought the
battle of Culloden, a battle fraught with such disastrous results to the
hopes of many gallant and enthusiastic Scotchmen.
CHAPTER II.
"Oh! Canada, mon pays, terre adorée,
Sol si cher à mes amours"
French Canadian Folk Song
It was a bright August afternoon. The sun was shining down with that
intense brilliancy which, I think, is only to be seen in Canada, or
in the sunny climes of those countries bordering on the Mediterranean
sea. The little village of Rimouski seemed this afternoon all asleep,
for the heat made every one drowsy, and the old French Canadian women
at their doorsteps were nodding sleepily over their spinning-wheels.
Spinning-wheels, improbable as it sounds to nineteenth century ears, are
not yet out of date in this part of the country, and many a table-cloth
and fine linen sheet, spun by the women of the district, find their way
to the shops of Quebec and Montreal. A quaint picturesque little village
this; the houses are scattered and at uneven distances from each other.
Nearly all of them have large verandahs projecting far out on the
roadside, which is covered with uneven planks, - pitfalls in many places
to the benighted traveller. There are not many houses of importance here,
but there is a fine convent, where the young women of the district are
sent to be educated. There is also a school for boys, which adjoins the
house of M. le curé. The shops - picture it, ye dwellers in Montreal or
Quebec! - are three in number, and are carried on in the co-operative
style. Everything may be bought in them, from a box of matches or a pound
of tobacco, to the fine black silk to serve for a Sunday gown for Madame
De la Garde, the lady of the Seigneury.
Then, of course, there is the church, for in what village, however small,
in Lower Canada is there not a church? This particular one is not very
interesting. It is very large, and has the inevitable tin roof common
to most Canadian churches, a glaringly ugly object to behold on a hot
afternoon, taking away by its obtrusiveness the restful feeling one
naturally associates with a sacred edifice. This on the outside; inside,
fortunately, all is different, and more like the Gothic architecture of
Northern France than one would imagine from the exterior.
Next comes the railway station, a large ugly building painted a neutral
brown. Here everything was very quiet this afternoon, for except at the
seasons of the pilgrimages to the church of the Good Saint Anne of Father
Point, five miles lower down the line, there is as a rule little traffic
going on.
Between Rimouski and Father Point (called by the French Pointe à Père) is
a long dusty road, very flat, and, except where the gulf comes in to the
coast in frequent little bays, very uninteresting.
There are few houses on this road, and these are far apart.
At the doorstep of one of these cottages - a well-kept, clean and neat
little dwelling - sat, this August afternoon, an old woman, spinning
busily. She, although some of her neighbors might be, was not asleep. Oh,
no! Seldom was Madame McAllister caught napping, save at orthodox hours,
between ten p.m. and six a.m. In spite of her seventy-six years, was she
hale and hearty, bright and active. She was a brisk little body, and had
a most intelligent face. Her eyes were dark and bright with animation,
and her coloring was brown and healthy, unlike that of her neighbors of
the same age, for, as a rule, French Canadian women of the lower classes
lead very hard-working lives, often marrying at sixteen or seventeen, and
have scarcely any youth, entering, as they do, on the trials and duties
of womanhood before an English girl of the same age has left the
schoolroom.
But, as I said before, Madame McAllister was hale and hearty. This
circumstance was due most probably to the admixture of Scottish blood
in her veins, for her grandfather, Peter Fraser, had been one of the
stanchest adherents of the young Pretender. Disappointed in his hopes,
he had come out to Quebec to help in the wars against the French, and,
after his regiment had been disbanded near Rimouski, he remained in the
district. His colonel, a certain Ivan McAllister, persuaded many of his
men to remain in that part of the country with him, cherishing the
quixotic hope that in this new world he might form a kingdom over which
his idol, Prince Chairlie, should reign.
However, after struggling for some years to make a stronghold for his
rather erratic chieftain, he at length lost heart and gave up his idea.
Most of his men remained in the district, and intermarried with the
French families already settled there.
Poor Colonel McAllister never got over the blow to his hopes. For the
sake of the bonnie prince, so unworthy of his true devotion, he had been
estranged from his family, and had spent his small fortune in coming to
Canada. Here he was, perforce, obliged to remain.
After a while he settled down as a farmer, and managed to make enough to
keep body and soul together. Perhaps one of the most sensible things he
ever did was to marry Eugenie Laforge, the daughter of the mayor of
Rimouski. She was a pretty girl, and had a nice little fortune, for money
went further in those days than it does now; and thus the McAllisters
were fairly well to do.
Their life for ten years was a happy, uneventful one, most of it spent by
the colonel in writing an account of Prince Charlie's adventures. This
unfortunate young man, I need hardly remind the reader, had long ago, in
the dissipations of various European courts, forgotten that there still
existed such a person as Ivan McAllister.
True, the colonel did give certain spare hours to the education of his
son, but the Prince was ever first in his mind. One morning, - strangely
enough, the anniversary of the battle of Culloden - Ivan McAllister died
quietly after a few hours' illness. Even at the last he was true to his
idol, for his parting words were not addressed to wife or child, but it
seemed that memory, bridging over the gulf of years, brought him back to
the old days, and there was something very pathetic in his dying words:
"Oh, my Prince, my bonnie Prince, I shall see you soon!"
He was buried, according to a wish he had expressed some years before,
in the churchyard of Rimouski, and at the head of his grave was placed
a roughly hewn cross, bearing on it this inscription: "Here lies Ivan
McAllister, Colonel, of the 200th Regiment of Highlanders, second son
of The McAllister of Dunmorton Castle Fife, Scotland. R. I. P."
In his later days Ivan McAllister had, under the influence of the curé of
Rimouski, become a devout Roman Catholic.
His son inherited his little savings, and lived on at the farm, situated
between Father Point and Rimouski, and the McAllisters continued there
from father to son up to the year 1877, when my story opens.
Madame McAllister, sitting at the doorstep this summer afternoon was the
widow of a Robert McAllister, who had died two years ago, leaving one
son, a promising young man of three-and-twenty. Just now she was waiting
for the home-coming of her son Noël, who had been absent on a long
fishing expedition to the north shore of the St. Lawrence.
Suddenly the old lady lifted her head, for her quick ear heard the sound
of an approaching footstep. She rose hurriedly, as her son drew near, and
cried out in her pretty French voice: "Oh, Noël, my son, is that you? - is
it indeed you? How long you have been away! and, oh! how I have missed
you! Noël, my son, it is good to see you again."
"Yes, my mother, it is I. We landed at Father Point early this morning.
We have had such good sport, and very hard work. I am hungry, though, my
mother, for the walk up to Rimouski gave me an appetite."
"Yes, my son, you must be. For three days, at this hour I have had a
meal prepared for you, and yet you did not come. I was beginning to get
anxious, though the Gulf is like glass, and the curé said there were no
signs of a storm. To-night also your supper awaits you, so come in."
The old lady led the way into the house, which was small, but exquisitely
neat and well kept. The first apartment, which opened from a tiny hall,
served as sitting and dining room. Like most other French Canadian
houses, Madame McAllister's was carpeted in all the rooms with a
rag carpet of three colors - red, white and blue. This carpeting is
extensively woven by the good nuns at Rimouski Convent, and is pretty
and effective, besides having the advantage of being cheap.
On the walls of Madame McAllister's sitting room hung the inevitable
pictures of the Good St. Anne, the mother of the Blessed Virgin, and
of Pope Pius IX. Indeed, it would be difficult to find a house in the
district which did not possess one or more of these engravings.
Through a half-opened door could be seen a glimpse of madame's bedroom - a
dainty interior. The wooden floor was snowy white, with here and there a
bright-colored mat spread on it; the brown roughly-hewn bedstead was
covered with a quilt of palest pink and blue patchwork, the patient
result of the old lady's years of industrious toil.
Madame McAllister busied herself getting supper ready, all the while
talking to her son.
"Well, Noël, my son, what did you get this time? I trust a great
quantity."
"Yes, my mother, we did very well. The first day we captured a fine
porpoise, and after that six large seals."
"Ah! that was good," replied madame.
Both mother and son spoke French in the Lower Canadian _patois_, rather
puzzling to English ears trained to understand only Parisian French. For,
not only is the pronunciation different, but several Scotch words are
used by the inhabitants of this district, and one puzzles hopelessly over
their derivation, until remembering the origin of the people.
"Where did you leave your boat?" questioned madame.
"At Father Point light-house with Jean Gourdon. He is to drive up with the
pilot to-morrow, and by that time will have skinned the seals."
"Surely the steamer is late this week?"
"Yes, but she will pass Father Point early to-morrow morning; she was
telegraphed from Matane, where there has been a dense fog."
"I am glad, Noël, you had such good luck this time."
"Yes, the porpoise will keep us in oil all winter, and as for the
seal-skins, I can sell them at Quebec for a good round price. So far so
good. But this is the first stroke of luck this year. It has been a poor
season. Have you any news, my mother?"
"No, nothing much, my son. There is to be a great pilgrimage to the
shrine of the Good St. Anne next week. Hundreds of lame, blind and sick
folk are coming from all parts of the country - from Quebec, and even from
Gaspé. Oh, my son, it is wonderful what the Good St. Anne does for her
children."
"Yes, yes," said Noël, impatiently, "but I want to hear the news of the
people here. How is Marie Gourdon?"
"Marie Gourdon? Oh! much as usual - always singing or playing the organ
at the church, and M. Bois-le-Duc encourages her. I call it nonsense
myself," and the old lady shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.
"But, my mother, she sings like an angel."
"Yes, yes, Noël; so Eugène Lacroix says too."
"Eugène Lacroix!" said Noël, starting; "I thought he was in Montreal."
"He has been here for the last week. He came down for a holiday, and is
always with Marie Gourdon."
"Yes, yes, they are old friends. I do not care much for Eugène Lacroix.
He seems to me a dreamy, impractical sort of person, and only thinks of
his books and those absurd pictures he is always making."
"You think them absurd?" replied madame.
"M. Bois-le-Duc told me he had great talent. You know that, for a time
the curé sent him to Laval at his own expense, and now talks of sending
him to Paris."
"To Paris! and for what purpose?"
"Oh! the curé thinks he will make a great painter. He is always painting
during his holidays. I'm sure I can't see the good of it."
"Well, my mother, M. Bois-le-Duc is a very clever man, and whatever he
does is good, but I, for one, have no very high opinion of Eugène
Lacroix."
While this conversation had been going on, Noël McAllister did ample
justice to the good fare his mother set before him. Madame McAllister was
nothing if not practical, and cooking was one of her strong points. Her
_bouillon_, a sort of hotch-potch, was so good that a hungry Esau might
well have bartered his birthright for it. Her pancakes and _galettes_
were marvels of culinary skill.
Noël, having appeased his appetite, sharpened by the salt sea breezes,
and after enjoying a pipe, said, "Now, my mother, I think I shall go out
for a walk and hear the news. I shall not be late."
"Very well, my son. Come back soon," said the old lady, and, as she heard
the door close on Noël, she smiled grimly to herself and muttered,
"The news, eh? The news! That is to say in plain words, Marie Gourdon."
CHAPTER III.
"Il y a longtemps qui je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
French Canadian Song.
It is a beautiful evening. The tide is rushing in over the crisp yellow
sands of the beach at Father Point. The sun is setting slowly, as if
loath to leave this part of the world, and, as he departs, touches with
his rays the gold and crimson tops of the maple and sumach trees, which
border the road leading into the churchyard of the Good St. Anne.
The clouds are scudding over the sky in great masses of copper color
and gold, parting every here and there, and showing glimpses of clear
translucent blue beyond.
And how quickly the whole panorama changes as the sun sinks to his bed in
the sea. Anon everything was golden and amethystine, like a foreshadowing
of the splendor of the New Jerusalem. A moment later and all is a deep
vivid crimson, flooding the scene with its rich radiance and casting into
shade even the tints of yon tall sumach tree in the prime of its early
autumn coloring. The old grey slate boulders on the beach are illumined
by it, and stand out in prominence from the yellow sands.
All is still to-night, save for the beating of the waves against the
rocks, or ever and anon the sound of a gun fired from the distant
light-house.
The light-house of Father Point stands out clear and distinct on a long
neck of rocky land running into the St. Lawrence.
All is still. But hark! A song comes faintly, carried on the evening
breeze, and presently it grows clearer, louder, more distinct.
The words now can be heard plainly. They are those of that old French
Canadian song so familiar to all dwellers in the Province of Quebec:
"A la claire fontaine,
M'en allant promener,
J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle
Que je me suis baigné.
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
The voice was tuneful, strong, and full and clear, though lacking in
cultivation. It was that of a girl, who was sitting under the shadow of
a large boulder on the beach. She seemed about eighteen, though, in the
uncertain wavering light of the sunset, it was impossible to distinguish
her features clearly.
Her gown was of simple pink cotton, and on her head she wore a large
peaked straw hat, which gave her a quaint old-world appearance.
Her brown hair had escaped from beneath this large head-gear, and blew
about in pretty, untidy curls round her neck and shoulders. In her hand
was a roll of music, which she had just brought from the church, where
she had been practising for the morrow's mass.
The girl was Marie Gourdon, only daughter of old Jean Baptiste Gourdon,
fisherman of Father Point. As far as the educational advantages of Father
Point and Rimouski could take her Marie had gone, but that was not saying
much. Her father was fairly well-to-do for that part of the world, and
had sent her, at an early age, to the convent of Rimouski. There she was
brought up under the careful training of Mother Annette, the superioress,
and received enough musical instruction to enable her to act as organist
at the Father Point church, and to direct the choir at Grand Mass.
Marie Gourdon was rather a lonely girl, although she had more outside
interests than many of her age. She had few companions, for most of the
young girls of the district obtained situations in Quebec, or some of the
large towns, finding the dullness of Father Point insupportable. Her
father and brother had this summer been on long fishing expeditions, one
taking them even so far as the Island of Anticosti, so that Marie was
left much to her own devices. Noël McAllister, it is true, was often
here, but neither his mother nor M. Bois-le-Duc seemed to like to see him
in Marie Gourdon's society.
This evening she had been thinking over these things after
choir-practice. Lately she had found time pass very slowly. Her father
and brother had come home early in the evening, but went off directly
after supper to skin the seals, and she would see no more of them that
night. In all probability in a few days they would go on another
expedition.
A quick footstep crunching the sand and a voice saying, "Good evening,
Marie," made the girl turn round to see Noël McAllister standing beside
her.
She sprang to her feet and exclaimed, with a certain glad ring in her
voice:
"Oh! Noël, is that you? I am so pleased you are back."
"Yes, Marie, it is I, not my ghost, though you look as if you had seen
one. And are you pleased to see me?"
"Of course I am. I think you need scarcely ask that question."
"And what have you been doing, my dear one, since I have been away?"
"Oh! Noël, the time has seemed so long, so wearisome. There has been no
one here to speak to, except for a week or two when Eugène Lacroix came
home for his holidays. I used to watch him paint, and he talked to me
about his work at Laval."
"Marie, I don't like Eugène Lacroix. He is stupid, conceited,
impractical."
"Indeed, I think you are mistaken. M. Bois-le-Duc calls him a genius.
Eugène, too, is a most interesting companion, and he has told me many
tales of countries far beyond here."
"Well, he may be a genius, though I for my part cannot see it. And you,
my dear one, do you long to see those countries beyond the sea? I know
I do. I am tired of this life, this continual struggle for a bare
existence. The same thing day after day, year after year; nothing new
happens. Why did M. Bois-le-Duc teach me of an outer world beyond the
bleak Gulf of St. Lawrence? Why did he teach me to read Virgil and Plato?
He did it for the best, no doubt; but I think he did wrong. He has
stirred up within me a restless evil spirit of discontent. Oh! Marie,
to think I am doomed to be a fisherman here all my life. It is hard."
"Yes, Noël, it is hard. It has always seemed to me that you with your
talents, your learning, are thrown away here. But why not go to Quebec or
Montreal? You would have a wider sphere there."
"I would go to-morrow, Marie, if it were not for one thing."
"What is that, Noël?"
"Marie, do you not know?"
"I suppose your reason is that you do not wish to leave your mother,"
said the girl hesitatingly.
"No, Marie, that is not the reason. My mother would let me go to-morrow,
if I wished."
"Then I cannot understand why you stay. You would do much better in
Quebec, you with your ability."
"You cannot understand, Marie? You do not know that it is because of
_you_, and you alone, that I stay on in this place, smothering all my
ambitions, my hopes of advancement. No, Marie, you say you do not
understand. If you spoke more truly you would say you did not care where
I went."
"Noël," said the girl gently, and looking distressed, "you know, my dear
one, that I do care very much, and I cannot think why you speak to me in
that bitter way."
"Marie, do you care? You have seemed lately so indifferent to my plans,
and it has made me angry, for, my darling, you must have seen that my
love for you is deep, strong, mighty, like the flow of yonder great
river. Aye, it is stronger, greater, more unchangeable."
A glad light came into the girl's pale face, but she did not speak, and
Noël went on:
"It is not as if my love for you were a thing of yesterday, for I can
never remember the time when you were not first in my thoughts. Yes,
Marie -
'Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai.'"
"What, Noël, never? That is a long, long time. Are you sure, Noël?"
"Am I sure, Marie? Is yonder great rock, on which countless tides have
beaten, sure? Is the mighty Gulf sure of its ebb and flow? Is anything
sure in this world, Marie?"
The girl did not answer, and he went on:
"Tell me, Marie, do you care for me or do you not?"
Marie hesitated, and Noël impatiently gathered up some loose pebbles and
threw them into the water, walking hurriedly up and down the beach.
"Marie, you must answer me to-night; I must come to a decision."
The girl rose slowly from her seat, and, coming towards Noël, put both
her hands in his, and lifting up her great brown eyes, lighted with
happiness and perfect trust, said deliberately, -
"'Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai.'"
CHAPTER IV.
"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away."
Keble.
"Well, I'm afraid, Webster, it's a thankless task. There are plenty of
Scotch names about here, but not the one we want. I'm heartily tired of
going about from churchyard to churchyard, poking around like ghouls or
medical students. We've been to all the graves in the neighborhood, and,
interesting as such a pursuit may be to an antiquary like yourself, I
find it very slow. I'm one of those sensible people who believe in living
in the present, and letting the dead past bury its dead, as the poet
says."
"Are you, indeed?" retorted his companion drily. "Too lazy, I suppose, to
do anything else."
"Well, that may be the case; but this I know, that I'm going to cable
Lady McAllister to-morrow, and tell her that I'm going back. You may stay
here if you like, as you appear to find the country so charming."
"It is very kind, indeed, of you to give me your permission," replied the
other. "But, my gay and festive friend, I doubt very much whether Lady
McAllister will allow you to return. You know, as well as I, how decided
she is. When she has once got an idea into her head, it is hard to get it
out."
"But, my dear sir," said the younger man, "it is such an utterly
ridiculous idea that she has got into her head now."
"Not quite so ridiculous as you think. It is a well-known fact that,
about the year 1754, Ivan McAllister, with a regiment of Scottish
soldiers, did embark for Canada, and landed at Quebec. It is just as well
known that a Scottish regiment was disbanded near Rimouski a few years
later, and we have every reason to believe, from our correspondence with
the Quebec Government, that Ivan McAllister settled in this district."
"I grant you all that, but he is dead long ago."
"Yes, but in all probability he has descendants living. If not, of course
the McAllister male line is extinct, and Lady McAllister's hopes will
receive a terrible blow."
"Poor Lady McAllister! she seems to have taken the thing very much to
heart. I hope she won't be disappointed, but I wish I hadn't come on this
wild-goose chase."
"You have come," said the elder, "so you had better make the best of it."
"Well, a precious lucky fellow this McAllister will be, if he exists.
Why, Dunmorton Castle with its woods must be worth half a million
sterling."
"Umph!" said the old man. "There is a condition."
"Yes, yes, but not a very dreadful one. Still, I'm not sure that I'd like
to marry Lady Janet myself."
"My young friend, your speculation on the subject is idle, for you will
never get the chance."
"Well, it doesn't matter," said his young friend philosophically, and
with a sentimental air, "my heart is another's."
"Ah, indeed! And who may the un - " (he had nearly said unfortunate, but
corrected himself in time) "fortunate damsel be?"
"Miss Sally Perkins. Yes, she is the girl of my choice. Oh! that I had
never crossed the briny ocean, so far away from Clapham and my Sally. The
Sunday I broke the news of my departure to her I shall never forget. It
was at tea; we were eating shrimps and brown bread and butter. She had
just poured out tea, and had eaten only two shrimps, when I told her I
was going across the broad Atlantic. She could eat no more shrimps that
day. She was overcome."
"Poor Miss Perkins!" said his companion. "Sure devotion could no further
go. She must be very fond of you."
"She is; and I must go back to England."
"You have come, and now I advise you to wait till I return. And, let me
tell you that cabling is very expensive just now. You will only waste
your money for nothing, and besides will be snubbed for your pains by
Lady McAllister."
The speaker who gave this sage advice was a little old man, with a
wizened face like parchment. His keen blue eyes had a shrewd twinkle in
them, and altogether he gave one the impression that he could see further
into a stone wall than most people. He was the confidential lawyer and
intimate friend of Lady McAllister, of Dunmorton Castle in Fife, and had
served the family for more than forty years.
His companion was a young Londoner, somewhat of the Cockney stamp, by
name Thomas Brown, a youth chiefly celebrated for his immense estimation
of his own capabilities.
The two men had arrived a week before by one of the mail steamers, and
had, in accordance with Lady McAllister's commands, visited nearly every
churchyard in the district to discover the name of McAllister.
Hitherto this had been a thankless task. Now, dispirited and fatigued,