"As positive as possible, with regard to the facts," Father Byrne answered. "Miss Morley broke her engagement because she heard the man to whom she was engaged making love to her cousin. She generously refrained from blaming the latter, but Mrs. Morley told me that Miss Lynde had undoubtedly made deliberate efforts to attract her daughter's lover. You will understand that I tell you this in confidence, and nothing but my sincere interest in you would induce me to tell it at all. You might readily hear it from others, however. It is, I believe, a notorious fact in Scarborough."
Earle was silent for a minute, looking down as if in thought, with his dark brows knitted, and his pleasant countenance overcast. The last words made him recall various hints and allusions of Mrs. Singleton's. They had produced little impression upon him at the time—not enough to cause him to inquire what they meant,—but now they came back with a force derived from what he had just heard. With sudden clearness he recalled that Marion seemed to shrink from any mention of her cousin, and that he had seen her change color once or twice when some man was alluded to by Mrs. Singleton in very significant tones. Even if it had been possible to doubt the priest, who spoke with such evident reluctance, these things recalled by memory gave added weight to all that he said. Presently the young man looked up, and spoke with an effort:—
"I have no doubt you have meant kindly, Father, in speaking of this matter; but, if you please, we will not discuss it further. To return to the book—I see that I had better decide for myself what will be suitable. Something of Newman's might answer, only he deals chiefly with Anglican difficulties; or perhaps Lacordaire's great Conferences on the Church might be best."
"That is rather a—formidable work," said the Father, hesitatingly.
"Yes," answered Earle; "but so splendid in its logic, so luminous in its style, that whoever reads it understandingly will need no other. But I must not detain you longer."
He rose as he spoke, shook hands with the priest—who was uncertain whether or not to regret what he had done,—and took his departure.
Once outside he said to himself that the thing to do now was to go directly to Marion, and learn from her the true meaning of the story which had so deeply disturbed him. He felt loyally certain that, as he heard it, it could not be true,—that she could never willfully have drawn her cousin's lover from his allegiance. At least he repeated this to himself more than once. But in his heart was a lurking doubt which he would not acknowledge,—a lurking recollection of the distrust he had felt toward her at first, and which lately had faded from his mind. Well, it would depend upon what she told him now whether this distrust were to be revived or finally banished.
It was late in the afternoon when he entered the grounds of the house in which Mr. Singleton dwelt; and the long, golden sunshine streamed so invitingly across emerald turf and bright flower-beds toward the green depths of shrubbery in the old garden, that he turned his steps in that direction, thinking it barely possible he might find Marion there, since she was partial to a seat under an arbor covered with climbing roses.
Some instinct must have guided his steps; for Marionwasthere, seated in the green shade, and so absorbed in reading that she did not perceive his approach. He paused for a minute to admire the beautiful picture which she made—a picture to delight an artist's eye,—asking himself the while if what looked so fair could possibly be capable of deceiving. It was a question that must be answered in one way or another, and, tightening his lips a little, he came forward.
She looked up with a slight start as he drew near, and the light of pleasure that came into her eyes was very eloquent. "So you have found me!" she said. "I thought that you might. I looked for you when I came out, but did not see you anywhere."
"I had gone into Scarborough," he answered. "I went to see"—he stopped before saying "Father Byrne," with a sudden thought that it might not be well for her to connect the priest with the information of which he must presently speak—"to see a friend," he continued. "I wanted to borrow a book. What have you there?"
She held it out, smiling. "Helen gave it to me long ago," she said, "but I never looked at it until to-day."
Earle found that it was a translation of the admirable French "Catechism of Perseverance," which is one of the best compendiums of Catholic doctrine. "After all," he said, "I do not know that I can do better than this, although I was thinking of a book of another kind for you,—a book that would rouse your interest as well as instruct you."
"I think I should prefer your choice," she said. "Helen had the best intentions, but she forgot that what suited her would not be likely to suit me."
This repetition of Helen's name brought his attention back from the book to the subject it had replaced in his mind. "Helen!" he repeated. "You mean your cousin, Miss Morley?"
"Yes. You have heard me speak of her. She is a Catholic. It was with her that I came to Scarborough."
"And why has she gone away and left you?"
Something in the tone rather than in the words caused Marion to color with a quick sense of apprehension. "My aunt took her away for change of air and scene. They are wealthy, and can go where they like. I could not go with them, and so Mrs. Singleton kindly asked me to stay with her. That is very simple, is it not?"
"Very," he answered. He looked down, and turned absently the leaves of the Catechism. "But, since you were your cousin's guest, it seems to me it would have been simpler if she had asked you to go with her."
"There were reasons why she did not," said Marion. She hesitated a moment, and then an impulse of candor came to her,—a quick instinct that Earle must hear from herself the story which he had perhaps already heard from others. "I will tell you what they were," she continued. "It is a matter which it is disagreeable to me to recall, but I should like to tell you about it."
Then she told him. There is everything, as we know, in the point of view from which a picture is regarded, or a story is told; so it was not surprising that, as he listened, Earle felt a sense of infinite relief. If this were all, she was not indeed altogether free from blame—for she acknowledged that she had taken pleasure in the perception of Rathborne's admiration,—but certainly she did not deserve that charge of duplicity which the priest had made. It was an unfortunate affair; but, feeling the power which she exercised over himself, how could he wonder that another man had felt and yielded to it?
So, for the time at least, all his doubt was dissipated, and Marion, satisfied with this result, deferred the decisive struggle yet to come.
CHAPTER XIX.
Butit was not to be long deferred—that decisive struggle which Marion clearly foresaw, and from which she shrank, notwithstanding Mr. Singleton's confident assurance of her victory. It was a day or two later that Earle said to her:—
"Since I am going away soon, Marion, it will be well that we shall settle all details of our future. Can you not make an effort and go with me? What need is there, in our case, for long waiting, or for submitting to a separation which would be very painful?"
The confident assurance of his tone—as if dealing with a point settled beyond all need of argument—made Marion's heart sink a little, but she nerved herself to the necessary degree of resolution, and answered, quietly:—
"There will be no need for long waiting or for separation either, if you will only consent to do what your uncle asks—to remain with him, and fulfil the duty which most plainly lies before you." She paused a moment, then added, in a softer tone, "You have refused to yield to his request, will you not yield tomine?"
Earle looked at her with eyes full of pained surprise. "Et tu Brute!" he said, with a faint smile. "I thought you, at least, understood how firmly my mind is made up on that subject—how impossible it is for me to resign all my cherished plans of life for the sake of inheriting my uncle's fortune."
"But what is to prevent your painting as many pictures as you like and still gratifying him?" she asked.
"Because no man can serve two masters, in temporal any more than in spiritual things. If I am to serve Art, I must do so with all my strength, not in a half-hearteddilettantemanner—but I am weary of saying these things. I hoped that by this time everyone understood them."
"I understand them perfectly," replied Marion; "but I do not think you are right. I think that, because you have never known the need or want of money, you are throwing away a fortune for a mere caprice, and you are condemning others as well as yourself to lifelong poverty."
"Not to poverty," he observed; "though certainly to narrower means than those my uncle possesses. It is for you to say whether or not you care to accept the life which I offer. I can not change it—I do not believe that even for you it would be best that I should."
"You are very kind to settle what would be best for me so entirely in accordance with your own tastes and will," she said, with her old tone of mockery. "May I ask why you are led to such a belief?"
"It is easily told," he answered, "and I will be perfectly frank in the telling. We all have some one point where temptation assails us with more force than at any other. With you, Marion, that point is an undue value of wealth and of all the things of the world that wealth commands,—things, for the most part, of great danger to one who does value them unduly. The possession of wealth, therefore, would be dangerous to you—more dangerous from the very strength of the passion with which you desire it. Forgive me if this sounds odiously like preaching, but it is true. I can not, then, change the whole intention and meaning of my life—give up my study of art and sink into a mere idle amateur—when by so doing I should gain nothing of value to myself, while working harm rather than good to you. Tell me that you believe I follow my conscience in this, and that you will be content with what I offer you?"
He held out his hand with a pleading gesture, but Marion would not see it. What he had said angered her more deeply than if he had let his refusal remain based solely on his own wishes. That he should recognizehers, yet coolly put them aside, reading her the while a moral lecture on their dangerous nature, filled her with a sense of passionate resentment.
"I might be content with what you offer," she said, "if it were not that you could so easily offer more—you could so easily gratify me, whom you profess to love, as well as the old man who loves you so well. But you will not yield in the least degree to either of us. You follow your own wishes, and declare mine to be mercenary and dangerous. The difference between us is that I have known something of the poverty you regard so lightly; and, while I might risk enduring it with a man who had no alternative of escape from it, I do not think my prospect of happiness would be great with a man who condemned me to it for the gratification of his own selfishness."
"Is that how the matter appears to you?" asked Earle. He paused for a minute and seemed to consider. "You may be right," he said, presently; "I may be acting selfishly—what man can be absolutely certain of his own motives?—but, to the best of my judgment, I am doing what I believe to be right. I can not yield to my uncle in this matter—not even though he has secured you as his advocate. I am sure that if I did yield, it would be worse for all of us. No, Marion; forgive me if I seem hard, but you must take me as I am, or not at all. You must consent to share my life as I have ordered it, or it is best that you should not share it at all."
She bent her head with the air of one who accepts a final decision. "It is very good of you to put it so plainly," she said. "Your candor makes my decision very easy. The matter to me stands simply thus: you decline absolutely to make the least concession to my wishes, you sacrifice my happiness relentlessly to your own caprice, and yet you expect me to believe in the sincerity of your regard. I do not believe in it. I believe, indeed, that you have some kind of a fancy for me; but you think that, because I bring you nothing beside myself, you can make your own terms and order my life as it pleases you—"
"Marion!" cried Earle, shocked and startled. But she went steadily on:—
"That, however, is a mistake. If I bring nothing, I have in myself the power to win all things. I might give up all things for a man who truly loved me, and who was poor by no fault of his own. But for a man who loves me so little that he would condemn me uselessly to a sordid, narrow life—for that man I have only one word: go!"
She rose with a gesture, as if putting him from her; but Earle caught her extended hand.
"Marion!" he said, earnestly, "stop and think! You accuse me of selfishness, but is there no selfishness in your own conduct? In asking you to share my life as it is settled, I do not ask you to share poverty: I only do not promise you wealth. Do you care nothing for me without that wealth? Consider that I can only think you weigh me in the scale with my uncle's fortune and without that fortune hold me of no account."
"You must think what you please," returned Marion. "I have told you how the matter appears to me. If you care for me, you will accept your uncle's generous offer. That is my last word."
"Then we can only part," said Earle, dropping her hand. "It is evident that the love of money is more deeply rooted in you than love of me. God forgive you, Marion, and God bring you to some sense of the relative value of things! I have the presumption to think that what I give you is worth a little more than the fortune which you rate so highly. Some day you may learn how little money can really buy of what is best worth having in human life. In that day you may remember this choice."
"I shall never regret it," she answered, proudly.
"I hope from my heart that you may not, butIshall long regret it. For I believe that you have a noble nature, to which you are doing violence. And I hoped that in the life to which I would have taken you, that nobler nature would have conquered the one which finds so much attraction in mercenary things."
The nobler nature of which he spoke struggled a little to assert itself, but was overborne by the lower and stronger nature—by anger, disappointment, and wounded pride. What! she, who had expected to sway and dominate all with whom she came in contact, to yield to this man—to give up the strongest wish, the most earnest resolve of her life? From her early youth embittered by adversity and galled by poverty, she had said to herself, "Some day I will be rich!" And now the opportunity to possess riches, and with riches the power for which she longed, was placed within her reach, and yet was held back by the selfish obstinacy of a man, who made his refusal worse by condemning her wishes. At this moment she felt that anything was more possible than to yield to him.
"You are wasting words," she observed, coldly. "My attraction for mercenary things concerns you no longer. Our folly is at an end. Itwasfolly I see, for you have no trust in me, nor any inclination to please me; and where these things do not exist, love does not exist either."
She gave him no opportunity to reply had he intended to do so, for she left the room abruptly with the last words.
And there was no deliberation about her next step. She went at once to Mr. Singleton. "I have come to tell you that your confidence in my power over your nephew is misplaced," she said. "I have failed entirely to influence him. He is going away."
The old man, who was leaning back in his deep velvet chair, his face against its soft richness, looking more than ever like a piece of fine ivory carving, did not appear very much surprised by this intelligence. He remained for a minute without speaking, regarding intently the girl before him. Her beauty was truly imperial; for excitement gave it a brilliance—a light to her eyes, a color to her cheeks—which was almost dazzling.
"What a splendid creature!" he said to himself; then he remarked aloud, very quietly:—
"And you are going with him?"
"No," she answered. "Since he has no regard for my wishes in a matter so important to me as well as to himself, I have declined to have anything further to do with him."
"Good!" said Mr. Singleton. His tone expressed not only approval, but intense satisfaction. "I am glad that some way to punish him has been found. But what is he made of that he can look at you and refuse to do what you ask! Has he gone mad with obstinacy, or is he a man of ice?"
"I do not know," she replied. "He cares only for himself and the gratification of his own whims, I suppose. He does not deserve that either you or I should think of him any more. And I," she added, more sternly, "am determined that I willnotthink of him again. He has gone out of my life forever. There only remains for me now to go out of this house, with the most grateful memory, dear Mr. Singleton, of your kindness."
"No," said Mr. Singleton. He extended his hand and laid it on her arm, as if he would detain her by force. "It is not for you to go, but for him. And he shall go at once."
"Not on my account." she said, haughtily. "Hehas a right here, I have none."
"You have the right that I ask you to stay," observed Mr. Singleton. "He has no other than my invitation, and that will be withdrawn as soon as I see him. Like yourself, I am done with him now forever. I have borne much from him and hoped much from him; but I see that the first was useless, and the last without any rational ground. This offense—his conduct to you—I will never forgive. But I hope, my dear, that you will suffer me to make what atonement for it I can. I consider you as much my adopted daughter as if this marriage on which I set my heart had taken place."
"You are very good," replied Marion. A vision passed before her as she spoke of all that this might mean; but she felt strangely dead toward it, as if already the fortune she coveted had been robbed of half its lustre.
"Stay with me, then," said Mr. Singleton. "I can not part with you, if Brian can. I want your society while I live, and I will provide for you liberally when I die. Will you stay?—is that agreed upon?"
"Yes," she answered. "If you care for me I will stay. Nobody else does care."
Then suddenly her proud composure gave way. She burst into tears, and made her escape from the room.
Perhaps those tears hardened Mr. Singleton's resolve, or perhaps it needed no hardening. After a few minutes he rang his bell, and sent the servant who answered it to summon Brian Earle to him.
The latter was on the point of leaving the house when he received the message, but he immediately obeyed it, saying to himself as he laid down his hat, "As well now as later." For he knew perfectly what was before him; and Mr. Singleton's icy manner was no surprise to him when he entered the room where Marion had brought her story so short a time before.
"I am informed by Miss Lynde," said Mr. Singleton, severely, "that your engagement to her is at an end, for the reason that you refuse to yield your wishes to hers as well as to mine, and she very wisely declines to countenance your folly and selfishness by sacrificing her life to it. Is this true?"
"Perfectly true," replied the young man, calmly. "Miss Lynde thinks me not worth accepting without your fortune. I regret to say that this, to my mind, betrays a nature so mercenary that I am not sorry a conclusive test should have arisen, and ended an arrangement which certainly would not be for the happiness of either of us."
"That is how it appears to you, is it?" said Mr. Singleton. "Well, let me tell you that, to me, your conduct is so utterly without reason or excuse, so shameful in its selfish disregard of everyone's wishes but your own, that I finally cast off all regard for you. Go your way, study the art to which you have sacrificed not only me but the woman to whom you pledged your faith; but remember that you have lost your last chance with me. Not a sixpence of my money will ever go to you."
"I have never wanted it," said Brian, proudly.
"No," answered his uncle. "But in the days to come, when your need for money increases, and you find that fame and fortune are not so easily won as you imagine now, youwillwant it; you will curse your folly then when it is too late; and you will think, perhaps, of the old man who offered you so much for so little, and to whom you refused that little."
Angry as the speaker was, something in the tone of his last words almost shook Brian's resolution. For a moment he asked himself if, after all, he might not be the victim of a self-willed delusion; if his uncle might not be right, and if it might not be his duty to yield. But this was only for a moment. He had the faculty of seeing clearly and deciding firmly once for all. He had long before this weighed every aspect of a question which so importantly concerned his life, and his final decision was based on many strong grounds. Those grounds he saw no reason to reconsider now.
"I am very sorry," he said, gravely, "for all that has happened,—most sorry for any disappointment or pain I have caused you or another. But there are many reasons why I cannot comply with your wishes; and, since further discussion of the subject is useless, I will beg your permission to leave you."
"Leave me and leave my house!" said Mr. Singleton, emphatically. "It is my duty to guard Miss Lynde from any possible annoyance, and to meet you could only be an annoyance to her now. You will, therefore, be good enough to go at once."
"I will do so," replied Brian, rising. "God bless you, sir, and believe that I am very grateful for all your kindness to me. I wish that I could have repaid you better."
Then, before his uncle could answer, he went away.
CHAPTER XX.
BrianEarle had not been gone more than two or three weeks when the report suddenly spread through Scarborough that Mr. Singleton was very ill. And for once report was true. One among the many chronic maladies from which he suffered took a turn for the worse, and the doctors shook their heads, saying the case was very critical.
Indeed it was more than critical. Those about the sick man knew that his recovery—even his partial recovery—was impossible. Close to him now was the dread Presence which care and skill had kept at bay so long, and no one was more thoroughly aware of the fact than himself. He met it with a grim philosophy, which is the only possible substitute for Christian resignation. Of religious belief he had very little, never having troubled himself to formulate the vague ideas which he had received from a much attenuated Protestantism. But, such as they were, they did not inspire him with terror. God would, no doubt, be merciful to a man who was conscious of never having done anything dishonorable in his life. This consciousness helped to support his philosophy, but it is not likely that he gave it much thought. A subject which has not occupied a place of importance in a man's consideration during life will hardly do so even in the face of death.
Mr. Singleton was more interested in arranging his worldly affairs than in preparing for the great change from time to eternity. His lawyer was summoned, and a final and complete revision made of the important document which would fulfill or blast the hopes of many people. Concerning this document Mrs. Singleton was wild with curiosity; but she could learn nothing, and her husband declined even to speculate concerning their chances. "We shall know soon enough—perhaps too soon," he said, with his usual philosophy, a little tinged by despondency.
Another person who felt some curiosity, mingled with an indifference which surprised herself, was Marion Lynde. Who would take in the will that place which Brian Earle had forfeited? And what would the latter think now of the fact that he had thrown away a fortune rather than give a promise, the fulfillment of which, as it now chanced, would never have been exacted? "He would have had the money and his freedom besides," she thought. "Does he recognize his folly now? Will he recognize it when he hears the news that soon must be told him?"
Of her own interest in this crisis, Marion did not take a great deal of thought. She had no doubt that some legacy for herself would find a place in Mr. Singleton's will, and no doubt also that in the time to come she would be grateful for it. But she regarded the probability just now with a dull indifference, which was the reaction from a great disappointment. She had not only lost the only man who had ever touched her heart, but also the fortune that might have been hers in the entirety. And, after that great loss, could she rejoice over the prospect of obtaining a small share of this fortune?
No: to rejoice was impossible; but she felt that whatever the old man's generosity gave would be welcome, since it would mean emancipation from absolute dependence on relations for whom she had no cordiality of feeling. No doubt the time would come when she would be very glad of this, but just now it was difficult—in fact, impossible—to be glad of anything.
In this way the days, weighted with much pain for one and much uncertainty of hope and fear for others, dragged their slow hours away and the end came at last. Marion was still in the house—Mrs. Singleton, who felt that her presence could no longer do any harm, had begged her not to leave,—and she felt a thrill of awe and regret when the words came from the sick chamber, "He is dying."
So the old man who had showed nothing but kindness to her was passing away—and how? Without a single heart near him that throbbed with affection, without a Sacrament or a word of prayer! Marion had associated too much with Catholics not to feel the horror of this, but she also knew too much of Protestants to expect anything different. Yet she could not help saying to Mrs. Singleton, "Has no clergyman been sent for?"
That lady looked surprised. "No," she answered. "Why should one be sent for? No one would take the liberty of doing such a thing while Mr. Singleton was conscious, and after unconsciousness had set in where would be the good? Mr. Eustace would come and read prayers, no doubt, if we asked him to do so; but what would be gained by it?"
"Nothing, I suppose," said Marion. She had heard those prayers—which are all that Protestantism offers,—and shuddered at the recollection. Yet for the dying man to go forth into eternity without a word of appeal in his behalf, seemed to her so terrible that she stole away to her own room, opened a prayer-book which had been given her at the convent, and, kneeling down, said for the first time in her life the prayers for the dying which she found therein.
And while she was saying them—those tender and infinitely touching petitions, which call upon the Most High in solemn supplication for the soul in its agony,—the soul for which she prayed passed away, and was done with the things of earth forever.
A day or two followed, of that strange, hushed quietness, yet of much coming and going,—of the sense of a suspension of ordinary life, which prevails in a house where Death has for the time taken possession. The living are generally impatient of this time, and shorten it as far as possible, especially where no deep sense of real grief is felt. But Mr. Singleton, in death as in life, was too important a person for every due propriety not to be observed. There were arrangements to be made, friends to be summoned, and details of funeral and burial to be settled. These things required time; and when it was finally settled that the funeral would take place in Scarborough, but the body would be carried for burial to the home of the dead man, there was a sense of relief in the minds of all concerned.
Marion accompanied Mrs. Singleton to the funeral in the Episcopal church, which had so much pleased her taste on her first arrival in Scarborough. It was as pretty as ever; but how little correct architecture, stained glass or rich organ tones could give life to the mockery of death which is called a burial-service, and which contains no reference to the individual dead person whose body lies—one wonders why—before a so-called "altar," where no sacrifice is offered, from which no blessing is given! Even the glorious promises of St. Paul, which the preacher reads with studied effect, fall upon the ear like something infinitely distant; the heart instinctively longs for one word of personal application, one cry for mercy and pardon on behalf of the poor soul that, in mute helplessness, can no longer cry for itself. But one listens in vain. There is not even an allusion to that soul. The general hope of immortality—which can be applied in any way that suits the listener—having been set forth, a hymn is sung, and, save for a few formal prayers at the grave, all is over.
Perhaps it was because she had so little religious sentiment to supply for herself what was lacking that, as Marion listened, she felt her heart grow sick with pity and disgust. "What is the possible good of this!" she exclaimed mentally, with indignation. "If no prayer is to be said for the soul, no blessing given to the body, why is it brought here? What meaning is there in such empty formalism? It is a mockery, nothing less; and if one cannot have what the Catholics give, I, like the materialists, who are the only logical Protestants, would have nothing."
After the service, which impressed at least one observer in this manner, the body was at once taken away. Mr. Singleton, of course, accompanied it, but his wife remained behind; and it was understood that immediately on his return the will would be read.
Eagerness on this score no doubt kept Mr. Singleton from the delay with regard to his return in which he might else have indulged, being a man who had a constitutional objection to haste. But for once he accomplished a very quick journey. On the third day after the funeral he returned, and the will was opened by the lawyer who had drawn it up according to the dead man's last instructions.
There was a strain of intense curiosity and anxiety regarding this will in the minds of all concerned. It was by this time generally known that, toward the last, Brian Earle had fallen hopelessly out of his uncle's favor; but no one felt able to conjecture with any certainty who would take his place in the will, although every one cherished a secret hope that it might be himself. There were several of these would-be heirs—cousins more or less removed—of the dead man; but Tom Singleton was, in the absence of Earle, the nearest relative, being the son of a half-brother, while Earle was the son of Mr. Singleton's only sister. The former, with all his easy-going quietness, felt that it would be an outrage if he were not the heir; although, knowing his uncle better than any one else, he knew also that he should not be surprised by whatever grim caprice the will revealed.
And such a caprice it did reveal, to the amazement and rage of everyone concerned. Mr. Singleton remembered with a legacy everyone whom it was proper that he should remember—the largest of these legacies being fifty thousand dollars to Tom Singleton,—and then he bequeathed the remainder of his fortune to his "adopted daughter," Marion Lynde.
The disappointed heirs looked at one another with expressions that baffle description. What! half a million to a girl who had no claim upon it whatever, whose relationship to the old man was of the most vague and distant description! They could hardly believe that he had really been guilty of anything so infamous. They would have felt it less an injury if he had endowed a college or a hospital.
But one reflection seemed to occur to all; for, after the expressive pause which said more than any words, almost every voice spoke simultaneously, "The will won't stand! His mind was weak when he made it. It's evidently a case of undue influence."
The lawyer shook his head. "No, gentlemen," he said; "don't make a mistake. This will can not be broken. My client took care of that, and I took care also. As for his mind being weak, Mr. Singleton here knows that up to the day of his death his mind was as clear and vigorous as it ever had been."
Tom Singleton, thus directly appealed to, bent his head. He had not been one of the speakers, and, but for the fact that he had grown very pale, showed little sign of emotion.
"And, foreseeing of course that this disposition of his fortune would cause disappointment," the lawyer went on, "Mr. Singleton was careful to explain to me why he selected Miss Lynde for his heir. It seems that she was for a time engaged to Mr. Brian Earle, whose name occupied in a preceding will exactly the place which hers does here. The engagement was broken in a manner which caused Mr. Singleton to blame his nephew exceedingly, and the young lady not at all. So, as he told me, he determined that she should lose nothing. The fortune which would have been hers had she married Earle—should be hers in any event. This was what he intended; and your disappointment, gentlemen, may be less if you will remember that Mr. Brian Earle is the only person whom this bequest to Miss Lynde deprives of anything."
But, naturally, this was not much comfort to the disappointed heirs. Each one felt thatheshould by right have taken Brian Earle's place, and that a broken engagement hardly gave Marion Lynde a claim to the fortune which had been bequeathed to her. There were many more angry murmurs, and numerous threats of contesting the will; but the smile with which the lawyer heard these was not very encouraging, nor yet his calm assurance that they could find no better means of throwing away the money which had been left to them.
Finally they all dispersed, and Tom Singleton slowly took his way to the house, where his wife and the fortunate heiress were awaiting him. Never had he been called upon before to perform a duty from which he shrank so greatly. He dreaded the violence of his wife's disappointment, and he felt a repugnance to the task of informing Miss Lynde of her inheritance. The lawyer had asked him to do so, and as one of the executors of the will he could not refuse; but it was a task which did not please him. If this girl, this stranger, had not come into their lives, would not he be in Earle's vacated place? He could not but feel that it was most probable.
It would require a volume to do justice to the feelings which Mrs. Singleton expressed when she heard the terrible news. She had not only lost the fortune—thatmight have been borne,—but it had gone to Marion Lynde, the girl whom she had discovered and brought to the notice of the infatuated old man who was dead! This was the insupportable sting, and its effect was all that her husband had feared. He had prepared himself for the storm, however; and he bore its outburst with what philosophy he could until Mrs. Singleton declared her intention of going to upbraid Marion with her great iniquity. Here he firmly interposed.
"You will do nothing of the kind," he said. "Miss Lynde is not to blame at all, and you will only make yourself ridiculous by charging her with offenses of which she is not guilty. If she has schemed for this, she concealed the scheming so successfully that it is too late now to attempt to prove it. There is nothing to be done but to make the best of a bad matter, and bear ourselves with dignity. I beg that you will not see her until you feel able to do this. As for me, I must see her at once."
And, in spite of his wife's protest, he did so. When a servant came to Marion with the announcement that Mr. Singleton desired to see her in the drawing-room, she went down without any thrill of excitement whatever. It was as she had imagined, then: the old man had left her a legacy. This was what she said to herself. And vaguely, half-formed in her mind, were the words, "Perhaps ten thousand dollars." She had never dreamed of more than this, and would not have thought of so much had not Mr. Singleton been of a princely habit of giving.
Was it wonderful, then, that the shock of hearing what she had inherited stunned her for a time? She could only gaze at the speaker with eyes dilated by an amazement that proved her innocence of any schemes for or expectations of this end. "Mr. Singleton," she gasped, "it is impossible! There must be some great mistake."
Mr. Singleton faintly smiled. "There is no room for mistake, Miss Lynde," he said. "My uncle has left his fortune to you."
CHAPTER XXI.
Itwas at first almost impossible for Marion to realize that the desire of her life was gratified in a manner so strange and so unexpected. She seemed to be existing in a dream, which would presently dissolve away after the manner of all dreams, and leave her in her old state of poverty and longing. That Brian Earle had lost his fortune, and that the old man now dead had not cared sufficiently for any of his other heirs to leave it to them,—that this fortune was hers—hers absolutely and alone,—was something that struck her as too wonderful, and, in a certain sense, too awful, to be true. There flashed across her mind a recollection of "being crushed beneath the weight of a granted prayer." Was she to be crushed beneath the weight of this prayer of hers so singularly granted?
Certainly she felt herself in an isolation which was chilling to the heart. The man she loved was gone—had parted from her in contempt; and she felt sharply how much that contempt would be increased when he heard that she possessed his inheritance. As for friends, where would she turn to find them? For her uncle and his family she had never cared; Helen was estranged—if not in heart, at least in fact; for intercourse between them could not now be pleasant to either; and it seemed a desecration of the name of friend to apply the term to Mrs. Singleton. Yet it was to Mrs. Singleton, after all, that she had to turn for social support and countenance at this crisis of her fortunes. And it was the good sense and philosophy of Mr. Singleton which induced his wife to see that she would gain nothing by following her declared intention of having nothing more to do with the heiress.
"People will only think that you are disappointed and envious," he said; "and since the world never, under any circumstances, turns its back on a rising sun, you will merely put yourself in a foolish and awkward position. The thing to do is, as I have said before, to make the best of a bad matter. And for us it might be a great deal worse. Of course we have missed the fortune, but I don't realty think we ever had a chance of it; and we are not paupers, you know. Now, it will be a graceful thing for you to take up this girl. She will appreciate it, I think, and it will prevent any undesirable gossip about her or about us."
"All that may be very true, Tom," Mrs. Singleton replied. "But I do not see how Icanforce myself to have anything more to do with her. I so despise her duplicity!"
"Duplicity is a thing to be despised," observed Mr. Singleton, quietly; "but I am not sure that Miss Lynde has been guilty of it. Let us give her the benefit of a doubt. If, as you believe, she schemed for this result, she most certainly did not expect it. I never saw any one show greater surprise than she did when she heard the news."
"She is a consummate actress. She might have affected that."
"Not even the most consummate actress could have affected what she exhibited. Her surprise amounted to incredulity. But, whether you believe this or not, believe that it will be best for you not to throw her off. There is nothing to be gained by that, and there may be a good deal to lose."
This view of the matter, together with her husband's unusual seriousness, impressed Mrs. Singleton so much that she finally consented to form an alliance, for purposes of mutual convenience, with Marion. The latter received her overtures with a certain sense of gratitude. She knew that they were interested, but she also knew that without Mrs. Singleton she would be placed in a very difficult position—would, in fact, appear in the eyes of the world as an adventuress who had secured a fortune at the expense of the rightful heirs. The countenance of those heirs was, therefore, very essential to her.
But this hollow compact for mutual convenience—how different was it from associations in which affection or sympathy forms the tie! Marion had fancied herself made in a mould strong enough to disregard such feelings, but she now found her mistake. Her heart ached for the affections she had lost—for Brian's strong love, and Helen's gentle tenderness. She had sacrificed both, and by sacrificing them won the fortune for which she had longed; but already she began to realize that she had lost in the exchange more than she had gained. Already the shining gold which had dazzled her was transforming itself into the dry and withered leaves of the fairy legend.
Her plans were formed to leave Scarborough. The associations of the place were hateful to her, and it was decided that she should go with Mrs. Singleton to the home of the latter, and then form arrangements for her mode of life. But, since she was still a minor, these plans were subjected to her uncle's modifications, and his consent was necessary for them. This caused a delay which detained her in Scarborough for some time, and brought to her knowledge a fact which was destined to influence her future.
This was the fact that Rathborne in his threat of enmity had uttered no idle words. A few days after the contents of the will had become known, while public interest respecting it was at its height, he met Tom Singleton and said a few significant words:—
"So Miss Lynde has won the fortune from you all! That is rather hard, isn't it?"
Mr. Singleton shrugged his shoulders. "Everyone knew that my uncle was a man of caprices. His will was certain to be a surprise, in one way or another; and for myself, I have no right to complain. He remembered me handsomely."
"And is there no intention of contesting the will on the part of the heirs?"
"I hardly think so. Brian Earle and myself are the people most nearly concerned, and we do not think of it."
"You are sure about Earle?"
"Perfectly sure," said Mr. Singleton. "Why should a man go into a lawsuit to gain what he might have had for a word?"
"There might be several reasons," returned Rathborne. "I can imagine one of great strength. But if you do not think of contesting the will, another heir may come forward to do it."
"No other heir would have a chance. If the will were set aside, Earle and myself would inherit."
"Not if the man's son should chance to be living."
Singleton opened his eyes. "But the son is dead," he replied.
"Is he?" said Rathborne, dryly. "Who knows it?—who can prove it? But, of course, I spoke only of a probability."
He moved away then, while his companion looked after him with rather a blank and puzzled expression. "Now, what on earth can be known about it?" he thought. "And what does he mean? Of course there never has been any proof of George's death, that I know of; and if heshouldbe living—Miss Lynde might look out for storms then. But nothing could be more improbable. My uncle evidently did not think it a matter to be even considered.Hemust have had some certainty about it."
Nevertheless, he mentioned to his wife what Rathborne had said, and she with malicious intent repeated it to Marion. "It is the first suggestion that has been made about George," she observed. "But if he should chance to be living, I am afraid you would lose everything."
"How could that be," said the young girl, "when he is not mentioned in the will?"
"Because, of course, he would contest it on the ground that his father believed him dead when he made it, and also that a man has no right to disinherit his son in favor of a stranger. I hope it may never come to such a contest, for many disagreeable things would be said about you."
"It would certainly never come to it, as far as I am concerned," replied Marion, haughtily. "For if Mr. George Singleton appeared, I should yield his inheritance to him without any contest at all."
"Would you indeed?" asked Mrs. Singleton. She looked at her for a moment with her head on one side, as if contemplating the possibility of what it might mean for herself. "I don't think there is the least danger that he will appear," she said presently; "and I had really rather you had it than he. I always detested George."
"Thanks for the implied compliment," said Marion, smiling faintly.
She said no more on the subject, but, naturally enough, she thought much. It was a new and startling suggestion, and seemed to derive added force from the fact that Rathborne had made it. For she had never lost the sense of his hostile influence—of the realization that she had made an enemy of one who had the strength as well as the will to be dangerous. And now she felt sure that if George Singleton were on the earth this man would find him. "That is what he intends to do," she said to herself; "and this is his way of letting me know it—of making me understand that I hold my fortune on an uncertain tenure. Well, let him do his worst. If I lose the fortune, nothing will be left me at all; and that, no doubt, is what I deserve."
This was a new conclusion for Marion, and showed how far she had already traveled on the road of self-knowledge. Even now she began to ask herself what there was which the money she had so eagerly desired could purchase for her of enduring interest? Now that everything was within her reach, she felt that she hardly cared to stretch out her hands to grasp any object of which she had dreamed. Admiration, pleasure, power,—all seemed to her like the toys which a sick child regards with eyes of indifference. Was it the weakening of her heart or the rousing of her soul which made them seem of so small account? She did not ask herself; she only felt that Brian Earle's influence had for a time lifted her into a region where she had breathed a higher air, and gained a knowledge of ideals which made her own now seem false, petty and unsatisfying.
Would these ideals have attracted Marion had they been presented by another person? That is difficult to say. Her nature had in it much essential nobleness—Earle had been right in thinking it more warped than really wrong,—and it might have responded in some degree to any influence of the kind. But surely it is not without grave reason that we are bidden to keep the heart with all diligence, since "out of it are the issues of life." It had been necessary that Marion's heart should be roused out of its cold indifference to all affection, before she could grasp the meaning of the higher things of life—those things which have their root and their end in eternity.
It was one evening about this time that she chanced to be driving late through the streets of Scarborough, and saw the Catholic church open and several persons entering. A sudden impulse made her bid the coachman stop. She was alone, having just left Mrs. Singleton at the house of a friend; and she felt that before leaving Scarborough finally—as it was her intention to do in a few days—she would like to enter once more the sanctuary where she had felt herself drawn very near to God. Since then the world had rushed in and overwhelmed her, and she had no longer any intention of embracing the true faith. But an attraction which could not be resisted drew her just now within the threshold of the door to which Earle had last led her.
She descended from her carriage, to the astonishment of a few loiterers around the church gate, and in the rich twilight walked up the path which led to the door. Music came from within, and as she pushed it open a vision of celestial yet familiar brightness burst on her. The altar was a mass of lights and flowers, and in the midst rose the ostensorium on its golden throne. The priest, with his attendants, knelt motionless before it, while from the organ-loft came the strains of the "O Salutaris Hostia." Marion had been at the convent too long not to know all that it meant. She knelt at once, as a Catholic might have done; and indeed in her mind at that moment there was no sense of doubt. From the uplifted Presence on the altar faith seemed suddenly infused into her soul. Not only did all thought of questioning leave her, but all memory of ever having questioned. She knelt like a child, simply, humbly, involuntarily; and, with the same confidence as those around her, breathed a petition for the things of which she had begun to feel herself in need—for light on a path which was by no means clear, and for some better guide than her own erring will.
After Benediction she was one of the first to leave the church, with a sense of peace which astonished her. "Why do I feel differently now from what I did when I entered?" she said to herself as she drove home in the soft dusk. "What power has touched me, and given me the first repose of spirit that I have known in a long time? It is surely strange, and impossible not to believe."
But there it ended. Not yet had come the time when she would feel the necessity of taking some practical step toward making this all-powerful help her own; not yet had the proud spirit bent itself to acknowledging its own inability to order its life. The very reason which not long before had drawn her toward the Church—the fact that Earle belonged to it—now repelled as strongly as it had attracted. The hour had not yet struck when such earthly considerations would fall away before the urgent demand of the soul, the need of the weak and the human for the strong and the eternal.
"The cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind;"
and not all of Marion's cedars had fallen yet.
The next day a surprise, which was yet not altogether a surprise, awaited her. She was quietly sitting in the room which had been Mr. Singleton's—that small, pretty apartment behind the large drawing-room, which still seemed full of the suggestion of his presence,—when she heard a visitor ushered into the adjoining room, and a minute later a servant appeared bringing her a card. She took it and read the name of Paul Rathborne.
It was a shock rather than an astonishment. She said to herself that she had looked for this: she had known that he would come as the bearer of ill news, if ill news were to be brought to her. For a moment she remained silent looking at the bit of pasteboard which said so much. Should she refuse to see him, should she deny him the pleasure of triumphing over her, and force him to send through another channel whatever news he brought? She was strongly tempted to this, but pride in the first place—the pride of not wishing to let him imagine that he had any power to move her—rejected the idea; and in the second place she felt that she must know at once whatever he had to tell. If she refused to see him, he would be capable of making her suffer suspense for an indefinite length of time. Steadying her voice to quiet indifference, therefore, she said to the servant: "Show Mr. Rathborne in here."
A minute later the curtains between the two rooms were drawn back, and Rathborne entered. She rose and bowed slightly, looking more princess-like than ever in her beauty and stateliness, and in the midst of the luxury which surrounded her. No detail of her appearance or her manner was lost upon the man who had come with his heart full of bitterness toward her. And if an additional touch to this bitterness had been needed, her haughtiness, and her air of calmly possessing a place where she belonged, would have given it. The recollection of some words of his was fresh in the minds of both as they looked at each other. "I promise you that in the hour when your schemes are nearest success, you will find them defeated by me." These had been his last words to her. Was he come now to tell her that they were fulfilled? This was the thought in her mind, but there was no sign of it in her manner or her glance. She stood, composedly waiting for him to explain the object of his visit; and it was he who had to speak first.
"I have ventured to ask the honor of this interview, Miss Lynde," he said—and, under its outward respect, she keenly felt the mockery of his tone,—"in order to make a communication of importance to you. It is true, I might have made it to your lawyer, but I thought it best that I should be myself the bearer of such news to you."
"I fully appreciate your motives," she replied, in her clear, flute-like tones. "Pray spare yourself and me any apologies, and let me know what possible news of importance can have fallen to you to bring me."
As she understood the underlying mockery in his voice, so he heard and felt the scorn of hers. Her clear, brilliant glance said to him: "I know that you have come here because you hope to humble me, but I shall only show you how despicable I consider you." It stung him as she had always had the faculty of stinging him, and roused his determination to make his tidings as bitter to her as possible.
"The news which I bring you," he said, "is most important to your interest, since it is the intelligence that I am directed to bring suit at once to set aside Mr. Singleton's will made in your favor, in order that the estate may devolve to the natural heir."
"Indeed!" she said, quietly, with admirable self-control. "And may I beg to know who is the natural heir who proposes to enter into this contest?"
"An heir against whose claim you will find it impossible to fight," he answered, with a ring of triumph in his voice;—"one who has been supposed to be dead, but who has been roused, by the news that his inheritance has been alienated from him, to prove that he is living. In other words, my client is Mr. Singleton's only son, George Singleton."
CHAPTER XXII.
Itdoes not always follow that a thing is not a shock because one has in a manner expected it. Marion suffered a severe shock when she found her worst anticipations realized; for, although she had in a degree anticipated it, knowing that Rathborne was not likely to have spoken without some ground when he alluded to such a possibility, there had still been the contrary assurance that Mr. Singleton had evidently believed in his son's death, since there was not even an allusion to him in the will. The intelligence just conveyed was, therefore, a hard blow mercilessly struck; but she preserved her self-possession, notwithstanding, in a remarkable manner.
"This is a very extraordinary piece of news," she said. "I have been under the impression that Mr. George Singleton was dead."
Rathborne smiled. "Most people have been under that impression, especially those who had very good reason for desiring that it should be so," he answered. "But, so far from being dead, he has been living in South America, and prospering fairly."
"Living in South America, and yet he has already heard of his father's death and the disposition of his father's property!—how has that happened?"
Despite himself, Paul Rathborne colored slightly, but his glance met hers fully as he answered, "It has not happened by chance. Some time ago a friend of mine who had been in South America mentioned meeting a man there who, from his description, I felt sure must be Mr. Singleton's missing son. The matter was then no interest or concern of mine; for it was to be supposed that the father and son knew their own affairs best. So I paid no attention to it. But a short time ago it began to occur to me that it was rather hard that, while the son was still living, strangers should be fighting for his inheritance. Therefore I wrote to my friend (who had returned to South America) to let Singleton know the state of affairs here. The latter immediately wrote to me, saying that he would return to his father as soon as possible, and meanwhile asking me to inform Mr. Singleton of his (the son's) existence and well-being. This letter reached me just at the time of Mr. Singleton's death. I immediately communicated this fact to Mr. George Singleton, as also the facts with regard to the estate; and I have just heard from him, authorizing me to contest the will at once."
There was a brief pause, during which Marion asked herself what was her best course of action; and out of the confusion into which her mind was thrown, she could grasp only one clear idea—that she must be careful how she committed herself to this man, who had come with the desire to injure and triumph over her. Consequently, when she spoke it was to say, quite calmly:—
"I think that you have made a mistake in coming to me with this story instead of going to my lawyer. I understand very wellwhyyou have come; but now that you have accomplished the end you had in view, I beg to refer you to him. For, of course, in a matter so important as this I shall not think of acting without advice."
"I am acquainted with your prudence," he said, with the mockery of his tone somewhat more pronounced; "and am not, therefore, surprised to find you so cautious. But I think it only right to warn you that your caution will avail very little. No will which ignores a son in favor of an absolute stranger can possibly stand."
"That is a point which I do not care to discuss with you," she replied. "But you will allow me to inquire if Mr. Singleton is in this country or on his way here?"
"Not yet. He will come if it is necessary; but I am at present authorized to act for him."
"You seem to have inspired him with a remarkable degree of confidence, considering that you are an entire stranger to him."
It was merely a chance shot, but something in the expression of Rathborne's face gave her an idea like a flash of lightning.
"It is to be supposed," she went on before he could speak, "that you are convinced of the identity of this stranger with Mr. Singleton's son?"
"Do you imagine that if I were not—"
"I imagine nothing," she interposed; "and as a lawyer you can not need a reminder from me that it will be necessary for this person whom you represent, fully to prove his identity with the son whom Mr. Singleton believed to be dead."
It was perfectly true, and Rathborne knew it; but he was none the less astonished that she should have so clearly and immediately perceived it.
"I always knew that she was shrewd as the devil," he said to himself, while he observed aloud:—
"Do not flatter yourself with any hope that it is an impostor who is about to claim the fortune you have inherited. Nothing can be more certain than that it is Mr. Singleton himself. To attempt to deny his identity will only be to make yourself ridiculous, and to damage your cause more than the plain facts have damaged it already. Your lawyer, I am sure, will advise you better."
"Let me again refer you to that lawyer, if this is all you have to say to me," she answered, rising from her seat.
He rose also; and as they stood for a moment face to face, it proved impossible for him to restrain some words which rose to his lips, brought there in double bitterness by the sight of her proud, calm countenance.
"I shall go to your lawyer," he said, "and I shall not rest until my client has all his rights—the rights of which he would not have heard for many a day but for me. When he is in full possession of them, I will ask you to be good enough to remember a pledge that I gave you once, and which I shall then have fully redeemed. I always endeavor to pay my debts; and, as you are well aware, I owe you a very heavy debt at present. I hope to repay it very soon—with interest."
"I am well aware that you are a malicious and a dishonorable man," she replied, calmly. "Because your treachery with regard to Helen recoiled on yourself, you have determined to injure me. Do your worst. Nothing that you could do would make you more despicable in my eyes than you are at present. This is all that need be said between us. Will you go now, or shall I be forced to leave you?"
"I shall go at once," he answered; "but you will permit me to offer you a little parting advice. Enjoy as much as possible the fortune which you hold now, for your possession of it will be very short."
With this last sting he went out from her presence; and she, sinking into Mr. Singleton's deep chair, clasped her hands over her painfully-beating heart, and looked with troubled eyes over the soft landscape before her, of which she hardly perceived a feature.
And so she was, after all, to lose the fortune for which she had sacrificed everything else! It had by no means brought her the satisfaction or happiness she had imagined, but it was all that remained to her—the one good which she still grasped out of the wreck she had already made of her life, and her life's best hopes. To lose it now, to sink back again into poverty and dependence after one brief taste of power and independence, that would be a bitter retribution for the choice she had made when she sent Brian Earle away,—a bitter retribution for the selfish vanity which had made Rathborne her enemy. She shuddered a little at the recollection of that enmity. Bravely as she had borne herself before him, it was a dismaying thought that such a power and such a will to injure menaced her. She thought of her proud self-confidence when from the quiet convent she had stepped into the world: her belief in her own ability to mould life, events, and people to her wishes. And now with what absolute failure she was threatened!—with what complete and hopeless loss of all that she desired!
The next day her lawyer came with a grave face, and greeted her with an air which was not lost upon her. "He thinks that it is all over with me!" she said to herself; but, though her heart sank a little lower at this proof of the weakness of her cause, she smiled on him brightly and bravely enough.
"I suppose," she began, "that you have seen Mr. Rathborne, who was so kind as to pay me a visit yesterday in order to give me some interesting intelligence?"
"Yes, I have seen Mr. Rathborne," he answered; "and the news he brought me was very unexpected and very serious."
"What do you think of it?" she asked.
The lawyer looked at her with surprise. The coolness of her tone and the composure of her manner seemed to indicate that she by no means appreciated the gravity of the danger which threatened her.
"I think," he replied, "that such a contest will be ruinous to you. No court will be likely to sustain a will which entirely disinherits a man's own son. Candidly, my advice to you is to compromise at once."
Marion did not say, "Advice should be asked before it is offered," but her curling lip said so for her, and so did the manner in which she ignored his suggestion.
"Before taking up a contest over the will," she said, "would it not be well to be quite sure that the person who proposes to contest it is indeed Mr. Singleton's son?"
Again the lawyer stared at her. Was it possible that he had not thought of this?
"Of course," he replied, "that is most essential; but it is very easily done. Mr. George Singleton has but to show himself. There are numbers of people who will recognize him."
"Why does he not show himself, then? Why is he content with merely writing to Mr. Rathborne instead of coming to look after his inheritance himself?"
"Because it is all that is essential at present—to give us warning and take the necessary legal steps. He will, of course, appear later."
"Let us demand that he appear at once," she said, with a decision of tone and manner which more than astonished the lawyer. "I, for one, distrust Mr. Rathborne utterly, and refuse most positively to transact any business with him. If you can get the address of this reputed Mr. Singleton, I beg that you will write to him, and say that we decline to recognize his claim in any manner whatever until he shows himself and establishes his identity. Then there will be time enough to talk of contest or compromise. Am I not right in this?"
"Perfectly right," responded the stupefied man of business. Never (as he afterward affirmed) had he been so surprised as by these energetic instructions. He had come himself prepared to instruct; to find perhaps unreasoning opposition, or hysterical complaining, which it would be necessary to quiet and bring to some practical view of the case. But to be met instead with this cool self-possession, these clear ideas and precise directions, was little less than a shock to him. His own ideas seemed to desert him as he sat and stared at the beautiful, resolved face which confronted him.
"Certainly you are right," he said again, after a moment. "The identity of the claimant is the first thing to be established; but—I confess that I am a little surprised by your thinking of this point. Why should it occur to you to doubt whether the person claiming to be Mr. George Singleton is really himself?"
"Because," she answered, "in the first place I am sure (and you, no doubt, are sure also) that his father believed him dead, else certainly he would not have omitted his name entirely from his will. And he must have had some reason for this belief. Again, as I have already told you, I distrust Mr. Rathborne entirety. He would be perfectly capable of bringing forth a false claimant."
"My dear young lady, that is a very serious, a very shocking charge. Mr. Rathborne is a—well, a sharp practitioner, perhaps; but I have no reason to suspect that he would be guilty of a criminal act. Indeed I have every reason to believe that he wouldnot."
"Your knowledge of Mr. Rathborne differs from mine, then," said Marion, coldly. "I am certain that he would be guilty of any act which would serve his purposes. And he has a motive for this which renders distrust necessary. Therefore, I insist upon the appearance of Mr. Singleton and the establishment of his identity before I will take any step whatever toward noticing his claim."
"It is only a measure of precaution," said the lawyer, "and very well thought of. You have an uncommonly clear head for business for a young lady. I will, then, write at once to George Singleton; but I do not advise you to build any hope on the probability of his proving a false claimant. This conduct is altogether characteristic of him; and I, for one, had always a suspicion that he was not dead."
"His father, however, must have had reason for believing him so."
"Perhaps—and perhaps not. Mr. Singleton was a man of the strongest passions, and his son had outraged him in every particular. When, after a long course of disregarding and defying his father's wishes, the young man left home with the avowed intention of never returning, I know that Mr. Singleton declared that he should be as one dead to him. He only kept his word when he made his will."
"But do you not think that in such a case as that he would have mentioned him, if only to declare that he disinherited him for good cause?"
"It was not necessary, and he might not have desired to do so. He was a singular man and a very reticent one. Even I, who knew him so long and so well, have no idea whether he had any knowledge of his son's fate or not. And this fact makes me believe that it is more than likely that George Singleton is alive and ready to claim his inheritance."
"Let him come and do it, then," said Marion. "That is all."
And in this decision she was sustained by those who as well as herself were interested in upholding the will. Mr. Tom Singleton shook his head, and agreed with the lawyer that such a course of conduct was very characteristic of George Singleton; but he also declared that it would be folly to run any risk of playing into the hands of a false claimant. "And when a man has disappeared for ten or fifteen years from the sight and knowledge of everyone who knew him, there is reason to fear that, with a fortune at stake, he might be personated by some one else," he said. "Such things have happened time and again. You are quite right to insist that he shall show himself. If he is George Singleton I shall know him in half a minute, and then we can decide what to do."
"It will prove to be George Singleton, I am sure," said his wife. "He was always a malicious wretch, don't you know? And this is just like him. But the puzzle to me is, how did he find out how things were in so short a time?"
"He had a self-constituted informant here," said Marion. "Mr. Rathborne took pains to discover his whereabouts, and to let him know the news of his father's death and the contents of his father's will, as soon as possible."
"Mr. Rathborne—oh, I understand!" said the lady. "Dear me, how many malicious people there are in the world! And this is how he revenges himself for your little flirtation with him, and for the loss of your cousin's fortune! Well, my dear, I must say that you are likely to pay heavily for what could not have been averygreat amusement."
Hot tears of mortification suddenly gathered in Marion's eyes. Surely this was humiliation, to see her conduct as it looked in the eyes of this shallow woman, and to be pitied (conscious that in the pity there was a strain of exultation) for the downfall that awaited her from Rathborne's revenge. If Helen knew, she might hold herself well avenged; but, then, in Helen's gentle soul there was no room for any revengeful sentiment.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Itwas soon apparent that no one except Marion herself had any doubt but that George Singleton was alive, and that it was himself and no impostor, who was claiming his inheritance. "The whole thing is so exactly like him!" said Mrs. Singleton. "If it were not malicious, it would not be characteristic of George. He wants to give as much trouble and disappoint as many people as possible."
"He must possess an amiable and attractive character," said Marion, faintly smiling. But as she smiled she said to herself that it was very evident the arrangement she had entered into with Mrs. Singleton could not stand. If the latter believed that it was only a question of time till Mr. Singleton's son should appear, what further need was there for her to conciliate and endure the girl who would soon have no power to return her good offices? Instinctively Marion knew that she was asking herself this question, and that it was best it should be answered at once.
"I have been thinking," she observed, aloud, "that since there seems so much doubt about the result of this matter, it will not be well for me to make any change in my life at present. Our arrangements had better be deferred indefinitely; and meanwhile I will stay here until Mr. Singleton arrives."
Although Mrs. Singleton possessed considerable power of self-control, she could not prevent her face from showing the relief she felt at these words.
"I suppose it will really be best," she said. "It would be very awkward for us, as well as for you, if we took up your cause, and, as it were, identified ourselves with it, and then—"
"And then I relapsed back into my original insignificance," said Marion. "Yes, I perceive. And, believe me, I have no desire to sail for a time under false colors, or receive any attention which would be paid only to Mr. Singleton's heiress. Moreover, if the business ends as you evidently expect, I should have no power to return the obligation under which you would have placed me. We will, therefore, say no more about our plans, and I will quietly remain here."