Marie Gourdon Part 12

"Yes," replied Lacroix, wearily; "of course I know it is a great thing for me. I appreciate it, indeed I do."

"You do not show your appreciation very enthusiastically," said the president, as he moved off to speak to some other guests who were just coming into the gallery.

Next day, early in the afternoon, Lacroix started for his long walk up Highgate Hill, with M. Bois-le-Duc's letter safely in his pocket this time. He was a good walker and used to outdoor exercise, and enjoyed the prospect of the long tramp this bright summer day.

He did not hurry himself, for there was plenty of time before five o'clock, and he stopped every few moments to examine some wayside plant, and to listen with the ardor of a true lover of nature to the merry voices of the thrush and blackbird singing a gladsome carol.

And he was often tempted by the fascinating beauty of the quiet landscape, as he left the grimy smoke of London far behind him and ascended into the pure fresh country, to take out his sketch-book and dot down dainty little glimpses, thus laying up a store for future work.

But at length he reached number 17, The Grove, and the door was opened by the trim little maid-servant, who replied, in answer to his inquiry--

"Yes, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia is at home. Please walk up this way."

CHAPTER 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 naught to the world, dear heart!

Thou'rt all the world to me."

Gerald Ma.s.sey.

Mademoiselle Laurentia was sitting at her five o'clock tea-table, a dainty little wicker-work affair, covered with delicate china of palest pink, blue and green tints. The cups and saucers were cl.u.s.tered invitingly round a huge old-fas.h.i.+oned silver teapot, and, on the n.o.b of the little fire-place a kettle was singing away merrily. A great rug of white bear-skin was stretched on the floor, and curled up comfortably in its warmest corner lay a large Persian cat, which, at the entrance of the visitor, merely turned languidly to see whether he had a dog, and then sank into sleep again.

A very homelike scene it was that Eugene Lacroix was ushered upon that summer afternoon, and the greeting of his hostess set him at once at his ease.

"How do you feel, Mr. Lacroix, to-day, after all your triumphs yesterday?

You received quite an ovation at the reception."

"Oh, I feel very well, indeed, thank you; this fresh country air puts new life into one. You were wise, mademoiselle, to choose your home in such a spot."

"Yes, I think I did well, though the place has its drawbacks. It is a long way from London and the opera. Still, I could not bear to live quite in town; the air there stifles me. After the clear bracing air of Canada, I find London very oppressive. But, M. Lacroix, you must be tired after your long walk up the hill. Do take that comfortable arm-chair and let me give you a cup of tea."

"Yes, gladly; tea is one of my weaknesses. Oh! how I missed it in Paris.

It is almost impossible to get a good cup of tea there."

"I always make mine myself, and have it regularly at five o'clock, and, even now, I still keep the fire lighted here, for the evenings are apt to be chilly, and I have to take care of my throat. That is _my_ fortune, you know."

"Yes, it is indeed, mademoiselle. How strange that all three of the cure's pupils should have succeeded so well in life, and all so far from their own land."

"It is indeed strange. That thought has often occurred to me, too," said Marie, musingly.

"But," went on Lacroix, "though, of course, I like London and Paris and all this excitement for a time, I often pine for our fresh Canadian breezes, for the dash of the Gulf against the rocks at Father Point! City life is so trammelled, and I long for the unconventional home life from which I have been removed so long."

"Ah! I see you have _mal de pays_; you see I know the symptoms," said Marie, smiling.

"Yes, I suppose it must be that."

"But how delighted you must be at the success of your picture. I saw by this morning's paper that it was bought by the prince."

"Of course, I am glad of my success. True, it has come late in life; but still it _has_ come. But I shall miss my picture very much."

"Naturally."

"However, I shall soon see the reality again. I am going home for a holiday next month."

"Indeed? How I envy you."

"Yes, I am really going, and I am counting the days until it is time to sail. But, mademoiselle, I am forgetting to show you M. Bois-le-Duc's letter. I have it with me; shall I leave it here?"

"No, M. Lacroix. I am very lazy this afternoon, and if you would read it to me while I just sit in this comfortable arm-chair and do nothing but listen, I should enjoy that above all things."

"Certainly, mademoiselle; nothing would please me better. I imagine your days of laziness, as you call it, are few and far between. Now, I will begin. The letter is dated Father Point, April 20th, 1887:--

"My Dear Eugene,

"I was very pleased to receive your last letter, and more than pleased to hear of your success; but the news that delighted me most of all was to hear that you were coming here this summer.

"What you tell me about my brother is very satisfactory; I knew he would be kind to you. I like to think of you as you describe yourself sitting in the great hall of the Hotel Bois-le-Duc, in Paris, where I spent so many happy days. I knew you and the marquise would have many subjects in common, and, as you say, she is one of the ladies of the old school, now alas! past, yet she can sympathize with Bohemianism, provided that talent is allied with it. She is a woman good as she is charming, and highly cultivated. True, I have not seen my sister-in-law for years, but her letters to me are as clever and interesting as those of Madame de Stael, and I know from them how her mind, instead of being dimmed with advancing years, has developed with every day.

"Your description of the old garden, with its rippling fountains and quaint _parterres_, reminds me of the days of my youth, when my mother gave her receptions there. Yes, my dear pupil, the halls of that old house and the old-fas.h.i.+oned garden have been the scene of many gay gatherings in the olden time, when France had a true aristocracy.

And not only stately dames and courtiers thronged to the Hotel Bois-le-Duc, but the foremost minds of the day lent brilliancy to my mother's _salons_. Wits, authors, poets, artists, statesmen, whose words could change the fate of Europe, were proud to call the marquise friend. I am an old man now, and you must forgive an old man's prosiness; but a little sadness comes into my thoughts when I muse on the past. How many of those ill.u.s.trious souls, then so full of life and power, remain? And I, long exiled from all I cherished, how have I progressed? No, no, Eugene; not even to you would I complain. What has a faithful follower of the Cross to do with the vanities of this world?

"It is one of my temptations, still, to think on what might have been had I not chosen the hard road, had I not renounced the gay world and its fascinations, for it had, and _has_ fascinations yet for me.

Eugene, my reward will be hereafter; but, as an old man, and one who has endeavored to do his duty for many years, I often wonder whether I mistook my vocation. But away with such doubts, they are a snare of the arch-enemy himself, a subtle snare.

"My dear pupil, hard as it was to let you go, I am glad you left me. I knew those years of labor _must_ tell in the end. I knew so much zeal could not be thrown away.

"Of Marie Gourdon, all you tell me is most satisfactory. When first I sent her to fight her way in the world, I had fears. In her profession there are so many evil influences to contend with that, in spite of her undoubted talent, I hesitated before letting her go. But I need not have feared. Marie Gourdon has one of those pure white souls----"

"Perhaps I had better not go on?" said Eugene, smiling.

Marie nodded and murmured half to herself--"Dear M. Bois-le-Duc, I am glad to hear he thinks so well of me. Please continue."

"--one of those pure white souls that can pa.s.s through the fire of any temptation and come out purer, stronger, holier. She has doubly repaid me for any pains I took with her education. Long ago she insisted on returning the money spent on her training, and every year regularly, she sends me two hundred dollars to be spent on the poor suffering pilgrims, who come to the church at Father Point. Yes, I am justly proud of two of my pupils; the disappointment I suffer because of the conduct of the third only serves to heighten the contrast. I beg of you never to mention his name again to me. Never allude to Noel McAllister in your letters in the slightest way. The manner in which he treated----"

Here Lacroix hesitated, grew very red and lost his place.

Marie, observing his distress, remarked placidly: "Please go on, I do not mind; that is all a closed page in my history."

"The manner in which he treated," continued Lacroix, "that poor girl was unpardonable. At an age, too, when she should have been most carefully guarded, when her feelings were most sensitive, he, for all he knew to the contrary, broke her heart. And, under the cowardly pretence that it was she who bade him go, he left her to live, for aught he cared, a dreary, colorless existence at Father Point.

"Fortunately Marie was a girl of no ordinary stamp. She could rise above disappointments--remember, I do not say forget them; and she threw her whole energies into her art. I am a priest, and know human nature, its weakness and its strength--and human nature is the same all the world over--and I can honestly say that the daughter of the fisherman at Father Point is the n.o.blest woman I have ever met.