"Why not?" asked Helen, innocently. "Why should I not believe that others are honest and sincere as well as myself?"
"Well, really there does not seem any reason on the surface, except that experience proves it otherwise," he answered, with a laugh.
"I hope it may be long before experience proves it to me," said Helen. "I can not bear to think badly of people. It seems to me that it would break my heart to be forced to think badly of any one for whom I cared."
If one heart present felt a twinge of compunction at those words, there was no sign of it; but Mrs. Dalton looked at her daughter with a sudden glance of something like apprehension.
"You should not talk in such a way, Helen," she said. "A broken heart is not a thing of which to speak lightly."
"I did not intend to speak lightly," answered Helen. "I meant what I said very seriously. I do not think I could bear it."
"That is foolish," continued her mother. "We must bear whatever God sends."
"I do not think Helen will ever have to bear a broken heart, or anything like it," observed Marion. "I am very certain that she is made for happy fortune."
"No one in the world, who lives for any length of time, can know unbrokenly happy fortune," said Mrs. Dalton, gravely. "But I do not think it well to discuss such personal subjects."
"Then we will discuss the rich old man who has a highly-trained nurse and a staff of servants," said Marion, laughingly. "Tell me"—turning to Rathborne—"what is his name?"
"Singleton," replied that gentleman. "Have you never heard of him? He is a very rich man; and Tom Singleton—the husband of the lady you have seen—hopes to inherit his wealth."
"He is his nearest relative?"
"Oh, I presume there are other nieces and nephews, but he is a favorite of the old man."
"Have I not heard something of a disowned son?" asked Mrs. Dalton.
"A disowned son!" repeated Marion. "I did not know that people out of novels—and even in novels it has gone out of fashion—ever disowned their sons now."
"As I have heard the story," said Rathborne, "it is more a case of the son disowning the father. He refused to comply with his father's wishes in any respect, and finally broke away and left home, going off to South America, I believe. He has not been heard of for a considerable number of years, and Tom Singleton says there is every reason to believe him dead. Of course the wish is father to the thought withhim, but others have told me the same thing."
"Perhaps his father drove him away by harshness, and remorse is what is the matter with him," said Netta Morley, solemnly.
Rathborne laughed. "From my knowledge of old Mr. Singleton," he replied, "I should not judge that remorse preyed upon him to any great extent. The son, I have been told, was a wild, rebellious youth, whom it was impossible to control—one of those unfortunate human beings who seem born to go wrong, and whom no influence can restrain."
"Where was the poor boy's mother?" asked Mrs. Dalton.
"She died when he was very young. But, with all due deference to the popular idea of a mother's influence, I think we see many cases in which it fails altogether."
"Yes," said Mrs. Dalton. "But even if her influence fails, her patience is more long-suffering than that of any one else, and her love is more enduring. Perhaps this boy might not have been lost if his mother had lived."
"If we begin with 'perhaps' we may imagine anything we please," remarked Rathborne, in atone which Marion had learned to understand as expressing contempt for the opinion advanced.
"Without indulging in any imagination at all, so much as is known of the Singletons is very interesting indeed," she said, in her clear, fluent voice. "If I see any of them, I shall look at them with much more attention from having heard this romantic story of a lost son and a great fortune."
"I think you are very likely to see Mrs. Singleton," observed Netta. "She spoke as if she desired to make your acquaintance."
"That is a great compliment—from her," said Helen. "What an impression you must have made, Marion!"
CHAPTER V.
Eventssoon proved that Helen was right in saying that Marion must have made an impression upon Mrs. Singleton. A few days later that lady's card was brought to Mrs. Dalton, who regarded it with mild surprise, saying, "Why, I have not called on her since her arrival this summer!"
"But you called on her last summer," said Helen; "and I suppose she has some reason for coming without waiting for you to make another formal visit. Pray find out what it is."
It was not at all difficult to discover Mrs. Singleton's reason for the visit. She declared it frankly and at once. "I hear that you have your charming daughter at home, Mrs. Dalton," she said; "and, knowing her accomplishments, I want to secure her aid for some musical evenings I am anxious to inaugurate. Mr. Singleton—my husband's uncle—finds almost his only pleasure in music; so I desire very much that these evenings shall be a success. Do you think Miss Morley will assist me?"
"I have no doubt she will be very glad to do so," answered Mrs. Dalton.
"I am delighted to hear it. And I am told that a very striking-looking young lady, whom I saw in church with Miss Netta Morley last Sunday, is your niece. Has she, also, taste and talent for music?"
"Oh! yes; she has a finer voice than Helen," said Mrs. Dalton, "and sings much better."
"How very charming for me!" cried Mrs. Singleton. "May I have the pleasure of seeing the young ladies? I should like to have their definite promise to help me."
The young ladies were summoned, and very readily gave the promise asked of them. They would be delighted, they said, to assist to the full extent of their musical abilities. "And when," Helen asked, "will the evenings begin?"
"Oh! at once," Mrs. Singleton replied. "On every Wednesday I hope to gather all the musical talent of Scarborough into my drawing-room. I shall send out my cards immediately to that effect. You don't know, Miss Lynde,"—turning to Marion—"how pleased I am to find unexpectedly such an addition as I am sure you will prove."
Marion smiled. "You are very kind," she said; "but I fear you are taking too much for granted. I am not a good musician. I have never had industry enough. Helen plays much better than I do."
"Oh, but, Marion, your voice is so fine!" cried Helen. "And everyone likes singing best."
"Ido, I confess," said Mrs. Singleton. "And so, I think, does my uncle. I have no doubt that you sing well, Miss Lynde."
"That is kind of you again," responded Marion; "but I must warn you that Helen is not altogether a trustworthy witness. She always thinks well of what her friends do, and poorly of what she does herself."
"I am willing to wait and let Mrs. Singleton decide whether or not I think too well of what you do," observed Helen, with a gay little nod.
"Mrs. Singleton has no doubt what her decision will be," said that lady. "Meanwhile, Miss Lynde, I wonder if we are not related in some way? I am very certain that the Singletons have connections of your name, and I fancy it must be your family."
"It is likely," answered Marion; "but matters of pedigree and relationship have never interested me sufficiently for me to know much about them. I regret that fact now," she continued, with unusual graciousness; for she felt that she would not be sorry to be able to claim relationship with people of such social position as these were.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Singleton, "my uncle will know all about it, I am sure. Like most people of the old school, he thinks a great deal of such things. And I hope I may prove right in my conjecture," she added, as she rose to take leave.
"Whatan impression you must have made upon her, Marion!" cried Helen, as soon as they were alone. "Do you know that she is usually the most supercilious woman, and so haughty that the idea of her claiming relationship with any ordinary person seems incredible!"
"Do you consider me an ordinary person?" asked Marion, laughing, as she walked toward a mirror. "I am exceedingly obliged to you."
"You know that I consider you a most extraordinary person," answered Helen, with emphasis; "but Mrs. Singleton does not know yet what you are in yourself, and—and you are not rich or—"
"Distinguished in any way," said Marion, as she paused. "There is no doubt of that. As far as the outward accidents of life go, I am a very insignificant person. But I shall not be so always, Helen. I am sure of that; and people who know the world seem to have an instinct of it also."
Helen looked at the fair face which, with such an air of conscious power, regarded itself in the mirror. To her this ambition belonged to the order of inexplicable things; yet she had a belief that it was natural enough in Marion, and that it was fully justified by gifts which she acknowledged without defining.
"No one could know you and not be sure of it," she said, in answer to the last speech. "Of course you will fill some great place in the world—we settledthatlong ago. But I do think it strange that Mrs. Singleton should recognize how remarkable you are—so soon."
"Perhaps it is an indication that other people will recognize it too," replied Marion, with a smile; while she said to herself that one other person had recognized it already.
And, indeed, the recognition of that person had by this time become sufficiently evident to everyone. In the innocence of her heart, Helen rejoiced that her hero and oracle agreed with her in admiring the cousin whom she admired so much. "I knew how it would be!" she said to him, triumphantly. "You might be critical about other people, but I knew youmustacknowledge that Marion is beyond criticism."
"That, however, is just what I don't acknowledge," Rathborne answered, laughingly. "Miss Lynde is by no means beyond criticism; she is only a beautiful and clever young lady, who has clearly determined to do the best for herself without much regard for others."
"Marion has never been taught or accustomed to think of others," said gentle Helen. "But I do not think she would harm any one for her own advantage."
"Oh! no; she would only quietly walk over the person who was unlucky enough to get in her way," remarked Rathborne. "And it is not I who would blame her for that."
Helen looked at him reproachfully. "Now you are doing yourself injustice," she said. "I understand that you do not mean anything of the kind, but such remarks make others think badly of you."
"No doubt," he replied, carelessly; "but, my dear Helen, there is nothing in the world of less importance to me than what others—the class of others you mean—think of me."
"But it is of great importance tome," said Helen. "I cannot bear that you should be misjudged by any one."
He laughed—people were right who said of Rathborne that he had not a pleasant laugh—as he replied, "Who can say when one is misjudged? Don't trouble yourself about that. As long as you are satisfied with me, I can snap my fingers at the rest of the world."
"You know how well I am satisfied," said Helen.
"Yes, I know," he answered, with a short thrill of compunction. "I am not all you think me, Helen. The 'others,' whose opinion makes you indignant, are nearer right than you are, if the truth were known, I suspect."
"You shall not say such things!" cried Helen. "There is nothing I could want changed in you, except"—her face fell a little—"except your religion. If you were only a Catholic I should be perfectly happy."
Rathborne smiled a little, as one would at the folly of a child. "I a Catholic!" he said. "My imagination is not strong enough to fancy that. No, my dear little Helen; you must be content with me as I am."
"Have you read the book I gave you—which you promised to read?" asked Helen, wistfully.
"I glanced into it—because I promised you," he answered; "but I found little of interest, and nothing to change my convictions. Do not indulge the hope that they ever will be changed. Let us understand each other on that point from the first. You are at liberty to believe and practice what you like, and I claim the same liberty for myself. Is not that just?"
"I—suppose so," answered Helen, whose forte was not controversy, and whose eyes were full of tears. "But surely you wish to believe and practice the truth?"
Rathborne shrugged his shoulders. "What is truth?" he said. "There is ancient and high authority for that question, and I don't know that it has ever been answered satisfactorily. I shall not endeavor to begin to answer it. And I shall not take an answer from the lips of a priest. Now let us change the subject."
The subject was changed, but poor Helen's heart was heavier than before it was begun. Whenever she did not talk to Rathborne on the subject of religion, she indulged a hope of his conversion, founded on her own ardent desire; but whenever she timidly opened the subject, she felt the hopelessness of moving this nature so deeply rooted in self-opinion, spiritual indifference, and worldly interests. At such times her poor little heart had its first taste of bitterness of life,—that bitterness which is so largely made up of the jarring of different natures and of irreconcilable desires.
Meanwhile some irreconcilable desires had begun to disturb the even current of Rathborne's carefully-planned life. For years he had seen very clearly what he meant to do—first to marry Helen, in order to secure the financial independence which her fortune would give; and then to climb, by certain well-marked steps, the ladder of professional and political eminence. He had never hesitated or wavered for an instant in this plan, neither had any obstacle arisen in his way. Helen had yielded to his influence, her mother's opposition was easily overcome, his professional success was all that he could desire, and already he was known as a man certain to gain the coveted prizes of public life.
But now into this well-ordered and orderly existence a distraction came. A beautiful, imperious, ambitious woman suddenly appeared in his path, and the strongest temptation of his life assailed him—the temptation to give up Helen and her fortune for Marion and Marion's striking gifts. "What might not a man accomplish with such a brilliant and ambitious spirit to aid his own ambition!" he said to himself, and so felt the temptation grow daily stronger. Yet he was well aware that in giving up Helen, he would give up more than her affection (which he did not count at all), and her fortune (which he counted very heavily): he would give up also a large and influential family connection, and the respect of every person of his acquaintance whose respect was worth most to him. He felt, however, that he might make up his mind to the last, if it were all; for he was too cynical and had too thorough a knowledge of the world not to know that people do not long remember anything to the disadvantage of a successful man. But to resign Helen's fortune, after the careful work of years to secure it, was something more difficult to him; and he had by no means made up his mind to do so when the above conversation took place.
It was the day of Mrs. Singleton'smusicale; and presently Rathborne, who found conversation tiresome to maintain, said as he rose to go: "Shall I accompany you this evening? Of course I have had a card like everyone else."
"Oh! yes; come by all means," replied Helen. "Mamma is going with us, and Netta and Frank are to call by; but it is always pleasant to haveyou."
"It is not pleasant to me, however, to form one of a caravan," he said, with some impatience. "If I am to accompany you, can you not dispense with Miss Morley and her brother?"
"I hardly like to tell them not to come; and why should you object to them? It is pleasant for us all to go together."
"Do you think so?" said Rathborne, with the sneer which came so readily to his lip. Some words of Marion's recurred to his mind. "Helen is so gregarious and so easily pleased," that young lady had said, "that I think she would like to live always with a mob of people." But for the memory of this speech he might not have felt so irritated with a harmless and amiable love of companionship; but the contempt which dictated the words found a ready echo in his own mind.
"If your cousins are going to accompany you, there is no need for me," he observed; "so I will content myself with meeting you at Mrs. Singleton's. Good-morning!"
"Oh, I am sorry!" said Helen, with quick regret. "Netta and Frank would think it very strange, else I would send and ask them not to come—"
"Not on my account, I beg," responded Rathborne. "I am very well satisfied with matters as they are. It gives me the opportunity of choosing my own time to appear."
"Don't be too late," said Helen. "You know that Marion and I are both going to sing; and Marion, I am sure, will do her best."
"And you also, I hope."
She shook her head. "I am not like Marion. A public performance unnerves me, but it always puts her at her best. You will hear to-night how much better she will sing for a number of people than she has ever sung for a small circle."
"I shall certainly hear," said Rathborne. "Tell Miss Lynde that I am preparing myself to be electrified."
Perhaps he was aware in uttering these words that Miss Lynde had appeared in the open door behind him. At least there was no surprise on his face, but a great deal of satisfaction, when she came forward, saying:—
"And why, pray, Mr. Rathborne, should you be preparing yourself to be electrified?"
"Because Helen has just been telling me how much you are inspired by an audience," he answered; "and you are to have all Scarborough for your audience."
She made a gesture of indifference. "Give me credit," she said, "for caring a little more for the quality than the mere quantity of appreciation. 'All Scarborough' does not mean a great deal to me, I assure you."
"Such as it is, though, it will be at your feet," he said. "Do not scorn it."
"I shall certainly wait until it is at my feet to begin to do so," she answered, with a laugh.
"It is not good policy to scorn even that which is at your feet," he said. "You may need it some day."
"Be sure that I have no inclination to scorn any kindness that comes in my way," she observed, quickly. "You do me injustice if you believe me capable of that."
"Then you will not scorn your audience to-night," he answered; "for I am sure you will meet nothing but kindness from it."
CHAPTER VI.
Neverwas a prophecy better fulfilled than that of Rathborne; for no one of the large company assembled in Mrs. Singleton's spacious drawing-room but felt prepared to admire and approve the beautiful young stranger, who was led to the piano by her host when the musical programme was about half over. Everybody had an instinct that the star of the evening had now appeared—that one who looked so proud and confident was not likely to entertain them with a mediocre performance. And, indeed, Marion, who had professed to scorn "all Scarborough," was sufficiently inspired by her audience to feel capable of doing her best. As the first notes of the accompaniment were struck, she threw back her head like one who answers to a challenge; and when she opened her lips such a tide of melody rose, such crystal-clear notes, such a flood of pure, sweet sound, that even the lowest undertone of conversation stopped, and people held their breath to listen.
Rathborne, who had been late in arriving, and who stood just outside one of the open windows, conveniently sheltered from observation, smiled to himself as he watched the scene within. It was one which gave him as much pleasure as his nature was capable of feeling. That beautiful, stately figure beside the piano, with its regal bearing and crown of red-gold hair, deserved to be the center of all attention; and suited his own taste so exactly that he did not even perceive Helen's sweet, smiling face near by. It did not surprise him that Marion sang as he had never heard her sing before. He had read her character accurately enough, by the light of his own, to feel sure that she would never fail when occasion called for display.
His glance swept around the apartment, taking in the expressions of the various faces, and finally fastening on one that was partly sheltered behind a curtain at the end of the room. This curtain fell between the drawing-room and a smaller apartment opening from it. Now and then during the course of the evening a few of the oldest and most distinguished of Mrs. Singleton's guests were admitted to the smaller apartment, where it was understood that "old Mr. Singleton" was established to listen to the music at his ease. It must have been very much at his ease that he listened; for he had given no sign of his presence or appreciation until now, when—as if Marion's clear, ringing notes had been a spell—Rathborne observed at the opening of the curtain a thin face, with a high, aquiline nose and white moustache.
Mrs. Singleton also observed it; and as soon as the song was ended, leaving others to crowd around the singer and express their admiration, she walked to the curtained arch and exchanged a few words with the person sheltered behind it. Then, turning, she crossed the room and deftly made her way to Marion's side.
"My dear Miss Lynde," she exclaimed, "what a pleasure you have given us! What a delight to hear such a voice as yours! My uncle is charmed, and he begs that you will sing again. Of course we all beg that you will, but I givehisrequest first, because it is a very great compliment—from him."
It was certainly a compliment which he had paid no one else; and Marion smiled with a sense of triumph. She preserved due modesty of manner and appearance, however, as she said: "I am exceedingly glad that I have been able to give pleasure to Mr. Singleton; perhaps there is some special song that he would like to hear?"
"Oh! I am sure he will like to hear anything that you sing," replied Mrs. Singleton, who did not wish to delay the amusement of the evening long enough to make inquiry.
So Marion sang again, with increased self-confidence and success; and the thin, keen face appeared again at the opening of the curtains, as if looking were no less a pleasure than listening.
But, this song over, Mrs. Singleton was too wise a hostess to encourage any request for a third. "We must not ask too much of Miss Lynde's kindness," she said. "Later in the evening, perhaps she will sing for us again; and we must be reasonable. Miss Royston is going to play for us now."
Miss Royston, a tall, angular young lady, whose elbows seemed unduly developed, took her seat on the piano-stool, struck a few crashing cords, and began a sonata. Being fresh from a conservatory of music, and having a severely classical taste, she was understood to be a very fine musician—a fact taken on trust by most of those who composed her present audience; but very soon a conversational murmur began to be heard; those who were near windows slipped out on the veranda "to enjoy the cool air while they listened," and there was no longer any glimpse of the aquiline nose and white moustache at the opening of theportières.
Marion, who had not been conscious of this brief, partial appearance of the invalid recluse, for whose amusement the entertainment had been arranged, whispered to Helen, by whom she sat down: "I wonder how Mr. Singleton likes this?"
"Not as well as your singing, I am sure," answered Helen, in the same tone; "for all the time you were singing he was looking at you from behind those curtains yonder."
"Was he indeed?" said Marion. She looked at the now closed, unresponsive curtains with a quick glance of interest. "What does he look like? I wish I had seen him."
"When you sing again, glance over there and you will certainly be gratified," said Helen. "But here comes Paul at last. He has missed your singing; is not that too bad?"
"I doubt very much if he considers it so," replied Marion. "He has heard me several times and never expressed any particular pleasure, that I remember."
"That is Paul's way," said Helen, eagerly. "It is hard to tell what he feels by what he expresses. He admires your voice very much. I am sure of that."
"What is it you are so sure of, Helen?" asked Rathborne, who had drawn near enough to hear the last words through the crash of the piano.
"That you are very sorry not to have heard Marion's singing," answered Helen, looking up into his face with a smile.
"I should certainly have been very sorry if I had not heard it," he said; "but, as it happens, I had that pleasure. And it was just as I expected," he added, turning to Marion. "You sang as I never heard you sing before. An audience inspires you—an occasion calls forth all your power."
She laughed softly. "Perhaps it was not the audience or the occasion so much as the consciousness of Mr. Singleton's presence, and a desire to evoke some sign of interest from a critic who buries himself in silence behind drawn curtains."
"Well, if so, you evoked it. I congratulate you upon that."
"Helen was just telling me that he vouchsafed a glimpse of himself during my song. I wish I had seen him. I have a curiosity to know what he is like."
"Like a very ordinary old man," observed Rathborne, carelessly. "But here comes Mrs. Singleton—to tell us, perhaps, that we should not be talking while the music is going on."
So far from that, Mrs. Singleton began at once to talk herself, in a discreetly lowered tone. "Miss Lynde," she said, "I hope you have no objection to making the acquaintance of my uncle? He has asked me to bring you in to see him. He is an old man, you know, and an invalid, so you will excuse his not coming to seeyou."
"I shall be delighted to go to him," answered Marion, with ready courtesy and grace.
So the entire company were surprised and interested to see their hostess leading the young stranger across the room to the jealously-guarded inner apartment where Mr. Singleton was secluded. All eyes followed them curiously, and lingered on the curtains, which Mrs. Singleton held back for a moment while Marion passed within, and then let fall.
Marion's own curiosity and gratification were equally balanced. It was like a public triumph to be led in this manner behind these curtains, which had opened for no other of the performers of the evening. Evidently this rich and presumably fastidious old man was to be included in the number of those who recognized her to be something more than ordinary. The instant that theportièreswere drawn back, she looked eagerly into the apartment thus revealed.
It was smaller than the drawing-room behind her, and was luxuriously furnished. The light which filled it was softly toned and shaded, but quite brilliant enough to show all the variety of silken-covered chairs and couches, the richly-blended tints of Eastern rugs, the carved tables and stands covered with books and papers. Sunk in the depths of one of the easiest of these easy-chairs was a small, slight man; his wasted face, with its high, distinct features, snowy hair, and moustache, thrown into relief against the back of the chair on which he leaned. His hands, which rested on its arms, were like pieces of delicate ivory carving, and his whole appearance spoke as distinctly of refinement as of ill health. Seated opposite him was an old gentleman, whose robust aspect was in strong contrast with his own, and who was talking in a tone which showed that he took no heed of the music in the next room.
He paused and rose at sight of the two ladies; but Mr. Singleton did not stir, though Marion felt his bright, keen eyes fastened on her at once. She followed her hostess, who went forward to his chair.
"Here is Miss Lynde, who has come to see you, uncle," said that lady.
"It is very kind of Miss Lynde," replied Mr. Singleton, with the air of the old school—that air which a younger generation has lost and forgotten. He held out his hand, and, when Marion laid her own in it, looked at her with an admiration to which she had always been accustomed, and an evident pleasure in the contemplation of so much beauty. "Will you sit down?" he said, after a moment, indicating a low chair by his side. "I want you to tell me where you learned to sing so well."
"Where do the birds learn?" asked Marion, smiling. "I have sung like the birds as long as I can remember; although, of course, I have had some teaching. Not a great deal, however."
"It is a pity that you should not have more," he said. "Your voice, if fully trained, would be magnificent. But, as it is, you sing remarkably well; you have no vices of style, and you have given me a great deal of pleasure."
"I am very glad to have given you pleasure," answered Marion, with an air of gracious sincerity. "Mrs. Singleton has told me that you are very fond of music."
He made a slight grimace. "I am very fond of good music," he said; "but I do not hear a great deal of it from amateurs. When Anna told me of the entertainment she had arranged, I had little idea of hearing such a voice as yours."
Marion laughed. "While I was singing," she said, "I had something of the feeling which I imagine the singers must have who are obliged now and then to go through an opera in an empty theater, for the sole benefit of the King of Bavaria, who is invisible in his box."
"But you had plenty of visible listeners besides the invisible one," said Mr. Singleton.
"I thought nothing of them," she answered. "I was singing toyoualtogether, and now I feel as if I had been summoned to the royal box to be complimented."
There was a playfulness in the words which deprived them of any appearance of flattery, yet it was evident that Mr. Singleton was not ill-pleased at being compared to royalty—even such eccentric royalty as that of the then living King of Bavaria.
"To carry out the comparison," he said, smiling, "I ought to have a diamond bracelet to clasp on your arm. Such are the substantial compliments of royalty. But, instead, I am going to ask a favor of you—a very great favor. Will you come some time and sing to me alone? I promise you that I will not be invisible on that occasion."
"I shall be very happy to do so," she answered, promptly. "It will be a real pleasure to myself. Tell me when I shall come."
"That must be settled hereafter. My health, and consequently my state of feeling, is very uncertain. Sometimes even music jars on me. Anna shall see you and arrange it."
Mrs. Singleton, hearing her name, turned from a conversation which she had been maintaining with the gentleman who was the other occupant of the room.
"What is it that I am to arrange?" she asked. "That Miss Lynde will come sometime and sing to us alone? Oh, that will be charming! But now I must go back to my duties, for I think I hear the sonata ending. Will you come with me?" she said to Marion.
"If my audience is ended," replied Marion, with a pretty smile, to Mr. Singleton.
"Your audience is not ended, if you do not mind remaining with an old man for a little while," he answered. "Anna can return or send for you when she wants you to entertain her guests again. Meanwhile I want you to entertainme."
"Before I go, then, I will introduce General Butler, and charge him to bring you back presently," said Mrs. Singleton, after which she disappeared.
General Butler, no less pleased than his friend with the charm of a beautiful face, sat down again, and said to Marion: "Your name is very familiar to me, Miss Lynde. I wonder if you are not a daughter of Herbert Lynde, who was killed at Seven Pines?"
"Yes," answered Marion, "I am his daughter, and always glad to meet his old friends. You knew him, then?"
"Oh! very well. He was in my brigade, and one of the bravest men I ever saw. I thought there was something familiar to me in your face as well as in your name. You are very like him."
"Herbert Lynde!" repeated Mr. Singleton. "If that was your father's name, my niece was right in thinking that there might be some relationship between us. The Singletons and those Lyndes have intermarried more than once. I hope that you do not object to acknowledging a distant link of cousinship with us?"
"So far from objecting, I am delighted to hear of it," answered Marion. "Who would not be delighted to find such cousins?"
There was something a little sad as well as ironic in the smile with which Mr. Singleton heard these words, as he extended his hand and laid it on hers.
"That sounds very cordial and sincere," he said. "I hope you may never find reason to qualify your delight. I confess I am glad to find that we are not altogether strangers. It gives me a faint, shadowy claim on your kind offices. I am not a man whom many things please. But you have pleased me, and I shall like to see you again."
"I shall like to come," answered Marion, "for my own pleasure as well as for yours. I am not easily pleased either," she added, with a smile; "so you must draw the inference."
"It is one I should like to be able to draw also," observed General Butler. "This is really too narrow. I cannot claim relationship, Miss Lynde; but remember I am an old friend of your family."
"Of mine, too, then," said Marion, holding out her hand to him. As he bent over it with a flattered air, she had a triumphant sense that it was a conclusive test of her power to be able to charm and influence men of the world and of mature experience like these.
CHAPTER VII.
"Well, Marion," said Helen, "now that you have seen Mr. Singleton, what do you think of him?"
They were walking home through the soft, moonlit summer night when this question was asked; and Marion answered, lightly: "I find him charming. He is refined, fastidious, has seen a great deal of the world, and is altogether a man after my own taste."
"Then," said Frank Morley, who was walking by her side, "a man after your own taste must be a heartless valetudinarian; for that is what Mr. Singleton has the credit of being."
"As it chances," said Marion, "neither his heartlessness nor his valetudinarianism concerns me in the least—granting that they exist. But I confess to a doubt on that point. Are you very intimately acquainted with him, Mr. Morley?"
Had the moonlight been brighter, it might have been perceived that young Morley flushed at the tone of the question. "No," he answered; "I have no acquaintance with him at all. But that is the opinion of every one."
"The opinion of 'everyone' has very little weight with me," said Marion. "I prefer my own."
"You are quite right to distrust an uncharitable opinion, my dear Marion," interposed Mrs. Dalton's quiet voice. "The fact of its being general is no reason for crediting it. People are always quicker to believe evil than good, I am sorry to say."
"I suppose that is meant for me," said Frank Morley. "But really I am not inclined, on general principles, to believe evil sooner than good. I do think, however, that some weight is to be given to aconsensusof public opinion."
"What a large word!" cried Helen, laughing, while Rathborne observed, with his familiar sneer:—
"A word which represents a large fact also, but a fact that must be based on knowledge in order to have any value. Now, the public opinion of Scarborough has no knowledge at all of Mr. Singleton. Therefore its decision about him has no value."
"I am glad to hear it," said Marion; "for I do not believe that he is either heartless or a valetudinarian."
"I suppose he made himself agreeable toyou," said young Morley.
"Very agreeable," she answered, coolly. "He informed me that we are related, and he asked me to come and sing for him alone."
"I congratulate you on a triumph, then," said Rathborne; "for he is a most critical person, who likes few things and tolerates few people."
"So I judged," she answered; "and I felt flattered accordingly."
"How frightened I should have been of him!" exclaimed Helen. "I am very glad that my singing was not worthy of his notice!"
There was a general laugh at this, as they paused at Mrs. Dalton's gate, where good-nights were exchanged. "I will see you to the house," said Rathborne, when his aunt declared that in the soft, bright moonlight there was no need for any one to accompany them farther; he opened the gate and went in, while the Morleys walked off.
"Frank," said Miss Morley, "what is the reason that you so often speak to Miss Lynde in a manner that sounds disagreeable and sarcastic? I don't think it is well-bred, and I never knew you guilty of speaking so to any one before."
"I never had such cause before," answered Frank. "It is the tone Miss Lynde habitually employs tome. You will say, perhaps, that is no excuse, but at least you will admit that it is a provocation."
"A provocation you ought to resist," said the young lady. "I am really ashamed of you? What is the reason that you positively seem to dislike each other?"
"Miss Lynde appears to think that I am a person who needs to be kept in his place by severe snubbing," replied the young man; "and I think that she is the most vain and conceited girl I ever encountered. I don't trust her an inch; and if there is not something very like a flirtation going on between Rathborne and herself, I'm mistaken."
"How can you say such a thing! Why, Paul Rathborne is as good as engaged to Helen; and, of course, her cousin knows it."
"That's neither here nor there. Whatever she knows or doesn't know, you have only to see them together to observe how well they understand each other. As for Rathborne, no treachery would surprise me in him."
"Frank, I am really shocked at you!" cried his sister. "You have let prejudice run away with your judgment. You dislike Paul Rathborne until you are ready to suspect him of anything. Of course he admires Miss Lynde—everyone does except yourself,—but that is no reason for believing that he would be treacherous to Helen. And Miss Lynde's manner is the same to him as to everyone, so far as I have observed."
"As far as you have observed may not be very far," said Frank, with brotherly candor. "Wait and see—that is all."
"I thinkyouought to wait and see before you make such charges," returned Miss Morley. "You always disliked Paul Rathborne, and now you dislike Miss Lynde, so you suspect them both of very unworthy conduct. It shows how we ought to guard against disliking people, since to do so leads at last to unjust judgments."
"Very fine moralizing," remarked the young man; "but not at all applicable in this case, since I don't suspect them because I dislike them, but I dislike them because I suspect them. There's all the difference in the world in that."
"It amounts to the same thing with you, I fancy," answered his skeptical sister. "But I hope that at least you will keep your suspicions to yourself. If you breathed them to Helen—"
"Do you think I would!" he said, indignantly. "What good could it do? Helen will believe nothing against any one she loves. And she does love Rathborne—confound him!"
"Frank, you are really growing so uncharitable that it distresses me to hear you talk," said his sister, solemnly.
Frank only responded by a laugh compounded of scorn and vexed amusement; but in his heart he knew that it was true—that he was growing uncharitable, and that he disliked Rathborne so much that he was ready to believe any ill of him. It was this dislike which had sharpened his eyes to perceive what that astute gentleman thought he was concealing from every one—the fact of the strong attraction which Marion had for him; and whoever else that fact might surprise, it did not surprise young Morley in the least. He had never believed in the disinterestedness of Rathborne's affection for Helen, and it had enraged him to perceive the trust with which his cousin gave her heart to a man unworthy of it. These sentiments had prepared him to observe any failure in the conduct of that man, and there had been a gratified sense of the justification of his own judgment when he perceived what was so far hidden from everyone else except Rathborne himself and—Marion.
For Marion was fully alive to the admiration with which Rathborne regarded her; but it is only justice to say that no thought of treachery to Helen was ever inhermind. Many and great as her faults might be, they were not of a mean order. By towering ambition and arrogant pride, she might fall into grievous error, but hardly into baseness—at least not by premeditation. But it is hard to say at exactly what milestone we will stop on the road of seeking the gratification and interest of self. It pleased her to see that Rathborne regarded her in a very different manner from that in which he regarded any other woman with whom she saw him associating; the unconscious homage of his air when he approached her, of his tone when he addressed her, the choice of his subjects when he talked to her alone, were all like incense to her vanity; and it was this incense which she liked, rather than the man. Concerning the latter, she had not changed her first opinion, which did not differ very widely from that of Mr. Frank Morley.
The day after Mrs. Singleton's evening, Helen said to her cousin: "I wish so much, Marion, that you would sometimes sing in our choir! Miss Grady, our organist, said to me last night that she would be so glad if you would, and I promised to ask you."
"Why, certainly," replied Marion, with ready assent; "I shall be very glad to do so whenever you like. Catholic music is so beautiful that it is a pleasure to sing it; but I don't know much of it."
"You know that lovely 'Ave Maria' you used to sing at the convent."
"Gounod's? Oh, yes! But when can I sing that?"
"At the Offertory in the Mass. I know Miss Grady will be delighted, for she has no really good voice. Fancy, mine is her best!"
"How modest you are!" said Marion, smiling. "Very well, then, I will sing the 'Ave Maria' next Sunday with a great deal of pleasure, if your organist likes, and your priest does not object to a Protestant voice."
"He is not likely to do that; but I thought you always declared that you are not a Protestant."
"I suppose one must be classed as a Protestant, according to the strict sense of the term, when one is not a Catholic—and that I am not."
"But you may be some day."
"Nothing is more unlikely. Your religion is too exacting: it puts one's whole life in bondage. Now, I want to be free."
"Not free to do wrong, Marion! And the only bondage which the Catholic Church lays upon people is to forbid their doing what is wrong."
"I must be free to judge for myself whatiswrong," returned Marion, with a haughty gesture of her head. "But we had better not talk of this, Helen. We do not think alike, and I do not wish to say anything disagreeable to you."
"Nor I to you," said Helen; "and indeed I have no talent for argument. One needs Claire for that. Dear Claire! how I wish she were here!"
"So do I," said Marion; "but not for purposes of argument, I confess."
Glad to do something to please her aunt and cousin, Marion went willingly the next Sunday to the Catholic church; and, having already seen the organist—a pleasant young music teacher—accompanied Helen into the choir-loft. Here, sitting quietly in a corner during the first part of the Mass, she had time to contrast the scene before her with that which she had witnessed during the other Sundays of her stay in Scarborough. The first thing which struck her was the poverty of the small building, as compared with the luxury and beauty of the Episcopal place of worship. Here were no finely-carved and polished woods; but plain, plastered walls, relieved from bareness only by the pictures which told in simple black and white the woful story of the Cross. The sound of moving feet and scraping benches on the uncovered floor jarred on her nerves after the subdued quiet, which was the result of carpeted aisles and pews; while the appearance of the congregation spoke plainly of humble, hard-working lives. No suggestion of social distinction and elegance was here. But in the sanctuary there was something of beauty to please even her æsthetic eye.
The small altar was beautifully dressed with freshly-cut flowers, draped with spotless linen and fine lace, and brilliant with light of wax tapers. Evidently Helen's careful hand and convent-bred taste had been there, even as Helen's pure, sweet, young voice was even now singing the angelic words of the "Gloria." The priest, who was a pale and rather insignificant-looking man, certainly lacked the refined and scholarly air of the handsome young clergyman with whom Marion instinctively compared him; but there was an assured dignity in his air and gestures, as he stood at the altar, which she was too keen an observer not to perceive, and remember that the other had lacked.
In the midst of these mingled thoughts and impressions—thoughts and impressions wherein devotion had no place—she was suddenly summoned to sing. She took her place with the self-possession which never failed her, and began that beautiful strain to which Gounod has set the sacred words of the "Ave Maria." There were not many musically trained ears or critically trained tastes among the congregation below, but even they turned instinctively to see what voice was rising with such divine melody toward heaven. Over and over again Marion had sung these words without thinking of their meaning, but she had never before sung them in the Mass; and now something in the hush of the stillness around her, in the reverence of the silent people, in the solemn, stately movements of the priest and the uplifting of the chalice, seemed to fill her with a consciousness that she, too, was uttering a prayer—a prayer of such ancient and holy origin that careless lips should fear to speak it.
"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei!"—Never before had the wonder, the majesty, the awfulness of the Name struck her as it struck her now, when she was, as it were, the mouthpiece for all the believing hearts that so called the Blessed Maid of Israel. "Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ." Her voice sank over the last words with a strange sense of their meaning. The hour of our death! It would come to her, too, that hour—a sudden, intense realization of the fact seemed to run through her veins like ice,—and when it came, would it not be well to have appealed in earnest to Her who stood by the Cross, and was and is eternally the Mother of God?
Such a thought, such a question was new to this proud and worldly spirit. Why it came to her at this moment is one of the miracles of God's grace. It was not destined to make any lasting impression; but for the time it was strong enough to cause her, when the hymn was ended, to go and kneel down in the place she had left; while from her heart rose the appeal which only her lips had uttered a moment before, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now and at the hour of my death."
It gratified Helen to observe that Marion knelt with apparent devoutness during the solemn portion of the Mass; but when they came out of church, and she turned with a smile to congratulate her on her singing, she was struck by the paleness and gravity of the beautiful face. "What is the matter?" she asked, quickly. "Has anything displeased you?"
"Displeased me!" said Marion, with a start of surprise. "No; why should you think so?"
"You look so grave."
"Do I? Perhaps I am displeased with myself, then. I did not know before that I was impressionable, and I find that I am. That vexes me. I detest impressionable people; I detest above all to feel that I myself am at the mercy of outward influences."
Helen looked all the wonder that she felt. "I don't understand what you mean." she said. "How have you found out that you are impressionable—I mean particularly so?"
Marion smiled slightly. "I am afraid you would not understand if I told you," she replied. "Or you would misunderstand, which is worse. But don't ask me to go to your church again, Helen. Something there—something about the services—affects me in a way I don't like. Nothing I should dislike so much as to become a mere emotional, susceptible creature; and I feel there as if I might."
"But, Marion," exclaimed Helen, half-shocked, half-eager, "surely our feelings are given, like everything else, to lead us to God! And, O Marion! how can you turn away from what may be the grace of God? For remember,God Himselfwas on the altar to-day!"
She uttered the last sentence in tones of reverent awe; but Marion frowned impatiently.
"It was because I knew you would not understand that I did not want to speak," she said. "What I am talking of is a mere matter of susceptibility to outward influences. It is disagreeable to me, and I do not wish to subject myself to it—that is all. I am never troubled in that way at the Episcopal services," she added, more lightly. "I shall go there in future."
CHAPTER VIII.
Itwas not very long before Marion's promise to Mr. Singleton was recalled to her mind—if, indeed, that could be said to be recalled which had never been forgotten. For she had not exaggerated in saying that this old man, with his air of the world, with his keen, critical glance, and the mingled imperativeness and courtliness of his manner, was after her own taste. His evident admiration and appreciation of herself no doubt led greatly to this result; for had she been treated as he was in the habit of treating people whom he did not like, there could hardly have been much liking on her side. But since his approval ofherwas very manifest, her approval ofhimwas not less so; and was, moreover, sharpened by the restless ambition which made her look eagerly for any opening by which she might gain her desired ends.
She was glad, therefore, to receive one morning a note from Mrs. Singleton, begging to know if that day would suit her for the fulfillment of her promise to sing for Mr. Singleton alone. "I should have askedyouto name the day," the note went on, "but for the fact that there are only certain days on which my uncle feels equal to the exertion of seeing any one; and, of course, he wishes to see as well as to hear you. If you have no other engagement for this afternoon, will you, then, gratify him by coming at five o'clock? And I hope to keep you to spend the evening with me."
Had any engagement interfered with the proposed appointment, there is no doubt that Marion would have broken it like a thread; but she was, happily, free from such a necessity, and had only to tell Mrs. Singleton that she would accept her invitation for the afternoon with pleasure. So, at the time appointed, her aunt's carriage dropped her at the door of the house which the Singletons had taken for the season. It was by far the handsomest house in Scarborough—wide, spacious, stately, with nobly proportioned rooms, and halls that spoke eloquently of the wealth that had planned them. It was a wealth that had vanished now, as the house had passed out of the possession of those who built it; but the fine old place served admirably as a setting for the Singleton establishment, which was formed on a very lavish scale.
When Marion was shown into the drawing room, she found Mr. Singleton there, established in a deep easy-chair near the piano, with an open newspaper before him. He laid it on his knee when she entered, and held out his hand.
"You will excuse my keeping my seat," he said, as she came toward him. "I rise with great difficulty, owing to obstinate sciatica, and never without assistance. But you must believe that I appreciate your kindness in coming."
"I am very glad to come," she said, with cordial sincerity. "I told you that it would be a pleasure to me. I like to sing, especially to one who knows what good singing is; and whose praise, therefore, has value."
He smiled, evidently well pleased. "And how do you know," he said, "that my praise has that value?"
"One can tell such things very quickly," she replied. "I think I should have known that you possessed musical culture even if I had not heard so."
"I have a good deal of musical knowledge, at least," he said. "In my youth I lived much abroad, and I have heard all the great singers of the world. It has been a passion with me, and I have missed nothing else so much during these later years of invalidism. You can judge, therefore, whether or not it is a pleasure to hear such a voice as yours."
"I know that my voice is good," said Marion; "but I also know how much it lacks cultivation. I fear that must jar on you, since you have heard so many great singers."
"No, it does not jar on me, because you have no bad tricks. You sing simply and naturally, with wonderful sweetness and power. Sing now, and afterward I will take the liberty of asking you some questions about yourself."
Marion went to the piano, and, animated by the last words, sang as well as she could possibly have sung for a much larger audience. In the lofty, wide room she let out the full power of her splendid voice with an ease, a total absence of effort, which delighted her listener. Lying back in his deep chair while song followed song, and marking how clear and true every note rang, his interest in the singer grew; and he began to rouse a little from the state of indifferent egoism which was normal with him, to consider what would be the future of this girl, whom nature had so richly endowed. Perhaps curiosity had a part in the interest; at least when Marion had sung for some time, he said suddenly:—
"That is enough for the present. I must not be unreasonable, and I must not let you strain your voice. Will you come now and talk to me for a while?"
"Willingly," she answered, rising from the instrument with a smile. "But you must remember that it does not follow that because I can entertain you by singing I can also entertain you by talking."
"I think it will follow," he said. "You talk, if not as well as you sing—for that would be very extraordinary—at least well enough to make me desire to listen to you. And in order to make you appreciate that, I must tell you that the talking of most people bores me intolerably."
"Are there any signs by which one can tell when one begins to bore you?" asked Marion, sitting down on a low chair in front of him. "Because I should like to cease as soon as that point is reached."
He smiled, all the lines of his face relaxing as he looked at her. In fact, he found the charm of her beauty almost as great as that of her voice. Had it been an unintellectual beauty, he would have cared nothing for it; but the flash of that indescribable quality which the French callesprit, the quickness and readiness of her speech, the grace of her manner,—all pleased and interested the man, who was not easily pleased or interested.
"I do not believe there is any danger of your ever reaching that point," he said. "And I think you are sure of it yourself. You have no fear of boring any one; for you know the thing is impossible."
"You are very kind," she answered. "But I have never observed that the people who bore one are at all afraid of doing it. So, lack of fear would not prove exemption from the possibility. But I flatter myself that I have penetration enough to detect the first sign, and I am certain that I would not need to detect the second."
"Any one who saw you would be certain of that," he said, regarding her intently. "As it chances, however, it may be I who will prove the bore; for I am going to claim one of the privileges of an old man, and ask you some questions about yourself; or, to spare me the trouble of asking the question, I should like for you to tell me something about your life, if you have no objection."
"Not the slightest," replied Marion; "indeed your interest flatters me. But I am sorry to say that there is very little to tell. You see, my life is only beginning."
"True. You have just left school, I believe?"
"Only a few weeks ago. I came then with my cousin from the convent, where I had spent two years."
"You are not a Roman Catholic, I hope?"
"Oh! no, certainly not." It occurred to her, as she spoke, that if he should ask what she was, she would not be prepared with so ready an answer. But his interest was apparently satisfied with ascertaining what she wasnot, and he went on to another question:—
"Where is your home?"
"Ah! that is difficult to answer," she said. "Before going to the convent, I lived with my uncle, but I could hardly call that home; and, since I have no desire to return to his house, I must reply with strict correctness that I have no home."
"That is a sad statement for one so young. Is not your uncle your guardian?"
"I suppose that he is; but, you see, I have no fortune to look after—somehow it has all vanished away,—and, personally, I am not very much in need of a guardian."
"Permit me to differ with you there," said Mr. Singleton, gravely. "Personally, I think that you are very much in need of a guardian. And by that I do not mean any reflection on your power of conducting yourself—which I have no doubt is very sufficient,—but I mean that no young and beautiful woman of good social rank should be without the protection of such guardianship."
"I presume certainly that my uncle considers himself my guardian, and it is likely that he has legal power to interfere with my actions," said Marion. "But I think he does not feel interest enough to interfere—unless he thought me likely to bring discredit on the family. And I believe he knows me well enough not to fear that."
Mr. Singleton smiled at the unconscious pride of her tone, and the gesture with which she lifted her head. "One need not know you very well in order to be sure of that," he said. "But, since these are your circumstances, allow me, as your kinsman, to ask another question. What are your plans for the future?"
She opened her hands with a gesture signifying emptiness, and slightly shrugged her shoulders. "Frankly, I have none," she answered. "I am waiting on fate. Don't think that I mind it," she added, quickly, catching an expression on his face. "It is interesting—it is like waiting for a play to begin. If I had my choice, I should prefer the uncertainties of my life to a life already mapped and arranged like that of my cousin, Helen Morley. Why should uncertainty of the future daunt one who has a consciousness of some powers, and has no fear at all? I am only anxious for the play to begin, that is all."
"Poor child!" said her listener. The words were uttered involuntarily, and startled him a little; for he was not easily moved to sympathy or compassion. But the very dauntlessness of this courage, the very rashness of this self-confidence, were sad to the man who knew so well the pitfalls of life, the dangers which no powers could avert, no bravery overcome. If Marion had subtly calculated how best to rouse his interest, and touch whatever heart remained to him in the midst of the gradual withering up of the springs of feeling, she could not have succeeded better, nor probably half so well. Any appeal to his sympathy, any tearful eyes or supplicating tones, he would have resisted; but this proud daring of fate, this quick rejection of pity, moved him more than, beforehand, he would have imagined possible. When conscious of the words which had escaped him, he went on:—
"Pardon me, but I have known so long the life you are just beginning—indeed I am about to leave the stage as you make yourdébut,—that I fear the play may not prove all that you fancy. It is apt to take sudden turns which no skill can foresee, and which force one, whether one will or not, into very unpleasant situations. But I have no inclination to act the part of a prophet of ill, so I hope all this may be reversed for you; certainly so much courage and so much beauty ought to propitiate Fate. And, meanwhile, if there is anything I can do to serve you, remember that I am your kinsman, and let me know."
"Thank you," said Marion, graciously. "But while waiting for the play to begin, I have nothing to desire. My friends are very kind. And now I fear that I may have reached that point of which we spoke earlier—the point of possible boredom. At least I know that I have talked too much of myself."
"Not at all," he replied, quickly. "You have only answered my questions; and I have been, I fear, too inquisitive. But my interest in you must plead my excuse. I suppose I have been more ready to gratify it because it is not easily roused—at least not to the degree in which you have roused it."
"That is very pleasant for me to hear," said Marion, truthfully. "I like to rouse interest—everyone does, I imagine; and yet I should not care for it if it were easily roused."
"No, I imagine not," said he, with a look that seemed to read her through and through. "You will care only for difficult things, and you are made to gain them."
Before Marion could express her approval of this prophecy, the sound of approaching footsteps was heard, and Mrs. Singleton entered the room, in the freshest and prettiest of evening toilets. She held out both hands to Marion, with an air of effusion.
"I was roused out of mysiestaby the most delightful sounds!" she cried. "At first I thought it must be an angel singing, but angels are not in the habit of visiting me; so then I remembered your appointment, and that I had intended to be present to share the pleasure with uncle. Unfortunately I slept too long for that, but you will sing some for me now—or perhaps we had better defer it until later, when Tom can have the pleasure too. You remember that you are going to spend the evening with us."
Marion remembered, and was very willing to do so; for these were people whom she liked to cultivate. They were not only people of high social consideration, who might be useful to her, but their knowledge of the world, their familiarity with society abroad as well as at home, and their easy habits of wealth and luxury, pleased her taste and gratified her own instinctive yearning for these things. The quiet, old-fashioned comfort of her aunt's establishment lost all its charm when contrasted with the fashion and lavish expenditure which were here. She was the only guest at the beautifully served dinner to which they sat down in the summer gloaming; but she could truly assure Mrs. Singleton that she was glad it was so. "Who could be found in Scarborough as entertaining as yourselves?" she asked.
"How very nice of you to say so!" replied that lady, patting her hand. "Then we are very well satisfied; for I am sure nobody could be found in Scarborough as entertaining as you are. In fact, you do not belong to the Scarborough order of life at all; you are totally out of place here."
Marion laughed. "I am afraid I feel so occasionally," she said; "but I have an idea that it is my fault: that I expect too much of Scarborough."
"You belong to another life altogether," repeated Mrs. Singleton, positively. "I felt sure of it the first time I saw you. A quiet, sociable, country-town existence may suit other people—your pretty cousin, for example,—but it does not suityou."
"That is very true," said Marion. "As a matter of taste, it certainly does not suit me; but I learned early that one cannot always expect to have one's tastes gratified."
"You are very philosophical. Now, for me, I always expect to have my tastes gratified, and they generally are. Demand a great deal and you will get at least some of it; that is my philosophy."
"And, unlike many philosophers, you always practice what you preach. That I can testify," said Mr. Singleton (the husband). "Don't let her demoralize you, Miss Lynde. If you have any moderation of desire, by all means keep and culture it."
"Unfortunately, my desires are boundless," replied Marion, smiling. "It is only my expectations which are moderate."
"Well, that is remarkable enough," said the gentleman; "if only you can manage to keep them so—but you will not."
"Why not?"
He cast a glance into an opposite mirror. "About the best reason I offer is to be found there," he answered. "No woman is going to expect less than Nature gave her a right to demand."
And so on all sides fresh fuel was offered to the vanity which already turned high and strong in dangerous flame.
CHAPTER IX.
Severalweeks passed, during which the acquaintance of Marion with the Singletons progressed rapidly to intimacy—such intimacy, that Helen protested more than once that her cousin spent more time with Mrs. Singleton than with herself. She was certainly very often the companion of that lady—seen by her side in the pretty phaeton which she drove, met at all her entertainments, called upon for all occasions when she needed assistance, social or otherwise. The vaguely understood link of relationship between them served as an excuse for this, had any excuse been required beside the caprice of the elder and the inclination of the younger lady. "I have discovered a cousin in Miss Lynde," Mrs. Singleton would say to her Scarborough acquaintances. "Do you not think that I am very fortunate?" And there were few who did not reply honestly that they considered her very fortunate indeed.
But the person who regarded this association most approvingly was old Mr. Singleton, since it secured him a great deal of Marion's society, for which he evinced a partiality. It was, in fact, to this partiality that Marion owed Mrs. Singleton's attentions. "Your uncle has taken a most extraordinary fancy to that girl, Tom." she said to her husband at a very early stage of the acquaintance; "so I think that I had better cultivate her. It will be better for me to use her as a means to contribute to his amusement than to let her develop into a power against us. There is no counting on the whims of an old man, you know."
"Especially ofthisold man," assented Mr. Singleton. "He is capable of anything. Therefore I don't think I would have the girl about too much."
"It is better for me to have her about than for him to take her up. If he considers her myprotégée, he will not be so likely to make her his own. I have given the matter some thought, and that is the way I look at it."
"You may be right," said easy-going Mr. Singleton. "I have great confidence in your way of looking at things, and of managing them too. But I confess that I have no confidence in this handsome and clever young lady. I don't think she would hesitate to play one any trick."
"Confidence inher!" said Mrs. Singleton, with scorn. "Of course I have not a particle. But she will have no opportunity to play me a trick. Be sure of that."
Meanwhile Helen said to Marion, rather doubtfully: "Marion, do you really like Mrs. Singleton very much? She is very pleasant and very elegant, but somehow—I hope I am not uncharitable—I never feel as if one could thoroughly trust her."
"My dear," replied Marion, with her mocking smile, "do you know, or fancy that you know, many people whom you can 'thoroughly trust'? If so, you are more fortunate than I am; for I have known only one or two in my life."
"O Marion! no more than that? How can you be so unjust to your friends?"
"I have no friends, in the true sense of the term, except you and Claire. I trustyou."
"I hope so, and I you—most thoroughly."
Marion regarded her with something like wonder. "Now, why," she said, dispassionately, "should you trust me? I am sure I have never shown a character to inspire that sentiment."
"You delight in showing your worst side," answered Helen; "but it does not deceive me. I know that the worst is not as bad as you would have it believed to be, and that the best exists all the time."
"It certainly exists for you, and always will," said Marion, quickly. "There is nothing I could not sooner do than betray your trust."
"How can you even hint such a thing!" exclaimed Helen, indignantly. "Do you think I could ever fear it?"
"No," replied Marion; "I am sure that you would never fear it from any one whom you love. But you may have to suffer it some day, nevertheless."
The speaker's tone had more significance than she intended, and Helen looked at her with a glance of sudden apprehension. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why should I fear it?"
"Why should any of us fear that we will have to share in the common lot—the common knowledge of evil as well as of good?" said Marion, evasively. "We must all expect it; at least that is one of the pleasant things we are told."
"Oh! yes, I suppose we must expect it," said Helen. "But expecting a thing in a general way, and doubting any—any one in particular, is a very different matter."
The conversation ended here; but the mere fact that she had been so quick to take alarm might have told Helen that, unconsciously to herself, suspicion had taken some root in her mind. The readiness with which she put herself into an attitude of defense showed that she feared attack. And, indeed, she had already suffered more than one attack on the subject of Rathborne—if that could be called attack which was only the expression of a gentle doubt, first from her mother, and then from the priest, who, distrusting all such marriages in general, had special reasons for distrusting this one in particular. Like most priests, he had many sources of information; many streams flowed, as it were, into the silent reservoir of his mind; and in this way things concerning Rathborne had come to his knowledge, which rendered him deeply averse to seeing Helen link her pure young life with that of a man so unscrupulous and selfish. Loath to give pain if unable to achieve any practical good thereby, he had spoken very guardedly to her when she sought his counsel; but, perhaps because he spoke with so much caution, his words sank deeply into her mind, and left a sense of weight behind. But it was one of her characteristics that, after once reposing confidence in a person, she could not lightly recall it; and she clung to Rathborne more closely for the opposition which she attributed to mistaken judgment.