"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 Noël 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:
"Noël 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."