"But you can not remain alone, and Imustget back home—"
"Do not let me detain you a day," said Marion, haughtily. "I am not rich in friends, but I can find some one to stay with me, so long as I need a companion; and it is only a question of money."
"Oh! yes, mere companions can be found in sufficient number—people who will be delighted to come. But you ought to have some social protection, some proper chaperon—"
"If all were settled as we thought, that would be necessary," Marion interposed; "but since I may, very likely, soon be deprived of the consequence that Mr. Singleton's money gives me, and since social protection and proper chaperonage are altogether superfluous for a girl without fortune, I need not trouble myself about them in this short interval of waiting."
Mrs. Singleton said no more, but she confided to her husband her opinion that Marion had given up all hope of being able to retain the fortune. "And it has made her dreadfully bitter," she added. "You know she always had a very cynical way of talking for such a young girl, but now that is more pronounced than ever. Disappointment is going very hard with her. I am almost sorry for her, although, of course, she has no right to the money at all."
"She has the right that its owner chose to give it to her," said philosophical Mr. Singleton.
But, although Marion put a bold front on the matter to Mrs. Singleton, her heart really sank at the desolateness of her position. So long as the fortune was still hers, she could buy a companion, as she could buy anything else; but she saw in the eyes of everyone around her the settled conviction that the fortune would be no longer hers. And then?
Meantime, however, it was necessary to make some arrangement, since Mrs. Singleton was eager to be gone; and, turning over in her mind the list of her few acquaintances in Scarborough—for friends she had none,—Marion was asking herself rather blankly to which one she could appeal for advice and assistance in her dilemma, when a servant entered with the announcement that a lady desired to see her.
"A lady!" she repeated. "Who is she? Did she give no name or card?"
The servant replied that the lady had given neither, but that, in his opinion, she was a genuine visitor—not an agent for patent soap or anything else of the kind.
"I suppose I had better see her," said Marion, reluctantly; "but she can not be a person of any importance, or she would have sent her name."
She went down stairs, slowly, indifferently, with a sense of mental lassitude altogether new to her, entered the drawing-room, and found herself face to face with Helen. She uttered a cry as the sweet, affectionate face she knew so well turned toward her, and the next moment they were in each other's arms.
"O Marion! I am so glad that you are glad to see me!" were Helen's first words. "I was afraid that you might not be."
"Afraid that I might not be glad to seeyou!" said Marion. "How could that be?—what reason could I have? But, O Helen, dear Helen! how good it is of you to be glad to seeme!"
"I know no reason why I should not be," replied Helen. "But I feared that there might be some disagreeable recollection—something to make you shrink from seeing me; so I thought I would spare you the shrinking—I would let you have the shock at once. But it is no shock, after all. The moment I saw your eyes, I knew you were glad."
"Oh! my dear, how kind you are!" cried Marion. "Glad! What should I be made of if I were not glad to see you—the most generous heart in all the world! But when did you come back to Scarborough?"
"Last night; and I would not write or let you know, because I wanted to see you myself, without any warning. And so, Marion, your great desire is accomplished—you have become rich since I went away!"
"And am on the point of becoming poor again," said Marion, with a smile. "Have you not heard that?"
"No: I have heard nothing—but how can that be?—how can you become poor again, unless you lose Mr. Singleton's fortune?"
"That is just what is going to occur—at least everyone thinks so. It is said that Mr. Singleton's son is alive, and that if he chooses to contest the will, it can not stand."
"O Marion! how sorry I am!"—the eloquent eyes said so indeed.—"To think that you should have obtained what you wanted so much, only to lose it at once! That is worse than if you had never possessed it."
"And do you see no retribution in it, Helen?" asked Marion, very gravely. "Did not you, too, want something very much—the happiness that had been promised you all your life,—and did you not lose it through my fault? Believe me, I have thought of this; and, thinking of it, I can make no complaint."
"I am sorry," said Helen, while a shade fell over her face, "that you should speak again ofthat. I do not look at it quite as you do. Happiness ought not to be our end in life.—I am not very wise, but I know that, because I have faith to tell me so. No doubt I thought of it too much; but even when I felt most about losing it, I was sure that God must know best, and I did not really desire anything which was not according to His will. How could one be so foolish as to do that? For it certainly would not be happiness if it did not have God's blessing on it."
"O Helen! Helen!" exclaimed Marion. It was a cry of mingled wonder and self-scorn. Somehow the simple words touched her more than the most eloquent appeal of any preacher could have done. For it was Helen who spoke,—Helen, who had just learned her wisdom in the hard school of practical experience, and who spoke thus to the person against whom her heart might have been most bitter. "My dear," she went on after a minute, "you are so good that you make me ashamed. I have learned lately—yes, even I—what you lost, and how much you must have suffered in the loss. It was through my own fault and by my own choice that I lost my happiness; but you were blameless as an angel, and yet you talk like an angel about it—"
"No, no," said Helen, quickly; "only like the most ordinary Catholic. And that not without a struggle, Marion. Don't fancy me better than I am."
"I don't fancy: I know you to be like something angelic compared to me," returned Marion, with a sigh. "Do you think that I ever asked myself anything about the will of God? I never even thought of Him in connection with my desires."
"O Marion!"
"It is true. Don't expect me to say anything else; for, with all my faults, I was never a hypocrite, you know. I thought nothing of Him, I asked nothing of Him, and now I have nothing to fall back upon. My happiness, like yours, is gone—with the difference thatIwas not worthy of it, whereas you were saved from a man who was not worthy ofyou. And now the money for which I was ready to do anything and sacrifice anything is in jeopardy, and no doubt will soon be gone."
"Has it brought you satisfaction since you have had it, Marion?"
"Do not ask me!" she said, sharply. "What is there in the world that does bring satisfaction? But when I give it up, I shall have nothing, absolutely nothing, left."
"You will have God's providence," answered Helen, gently. "Trust a little to that; and tell me something—all if you will—about yourself,—about what has happened since we parted, and what your plans for the future are."
In past time, though Marion had always loved Helen, she had rather despised her as a counselor; but now she felt it a relief beyond the power of words to express, to open her heart, to tell her difficulties, even to ask advice from one of whose affection and interest she was so secure. For had she not lately learned how weary life can be when it holds not a single friend, not one heart on which it is possible to rely for disinterested aid or counsel? She told the story of her brief engagement to Brian Earle, and did not resent the condemnation which she read in Helen's eyes. Then a harder task was before her—to speak of Rathborne's part in the appearance of George Singleton. She touched on this as lightly as possible, but Helen quickly seized the fact.
"And so it was Paul who found him!" she said. "I am sorry for that,—sorry, I mean, that he should have taken such a part in what did not concern him, from the motive which I fear actuated him."
"He took pains to leave me in no doubt whatever about his motive," observed Marion. "I have seen him only once, and then I bade him do his worst—produce his client without loss of time. When he is produced, if he is properly identified, my dream of riches will be over; for I shall give up the estate without a contest. But I will not give it up until I am certain that I shall not be resigning it to a false claimant."
"You do not think that Paul Rathborne would be guilty of fraud?" said Helen quickly, in a pained tone; for the loyal heart was slow to resign any one for whom it had ever cherished an affection or a trust.
"You forget," said Marion, waiving the question whether or not she believed Rathborne capable of fraud, "that this man is in South America, and no one here has seen him. Mr. Rathborne has only communicated with him by letters. Now, what would be easier than for some unscrupulous man to write in George Singleton's name, if the latter were dead? Such things are of common occurrence. But it would be difficult to personate him so as to deceive the many people who have known him; and that is why I will take no step, nor even consider the matter, untilhe has been produced."
"I suppose that is best," answered Helen. "And meanwhile what are you going to do?"
"I am going to stay here, with what patience I may. How I am to live alone, I do not exactly see—for Mrs. Singleton is going away; but now that I have you again, I have taken heart. You will recommend some one to stay with me."
"I will do better than that: I will take you home with me."
"Oh, no!" said Marion, shrinking a little; "that can not be. It is like you, dear Helen, to propose it; but I do not think my aunt would like—stop! I know she would be kind, and try not to show what she felt; but I should be aware of it—aware that she has no respect for me in her heart, and I should be more ill at ease there than here. This is my home for the present; it may not be so long, and I may never have another. So let me keep it while I may. Find me some good, quiet woman—you know everyone in Scarborough—to stay with me; and come yourself whenever you can, and I shall be content."
"There will be no difficulty in finding such a person as you want," said Helen. "But I think my plan is best."
Marion shook her head. "No," she insisted. "I abused your hospitality once. I can never forget that; and I do not think that, kind and good as she is, my aunt will ever forget it; so do not let us talk of my going to you. Some day, perhaps, if I have no other refuge in the world, I may come and ask you for a shelter, but not now."
She was immovable in this, even when Mrs. Dalton seconded Helen's invitation; and so they did what she asked—found a pleasant, quiet, elderly lady to stay with her; and let her have her own way.
It was a strange time, the period of waiting which followed—a kind of interlude, a breathing space, as it were, between the rush of events which had reached this conclusion, and other events which were to follow and change life yet again, in what degree no one could say. It seemed to Marion that she could hardly be said to live during these weeks. She merely existed—in a state partly of expectation, partly of that lassitude which follows a high degree of mental as well as physical tension. She had passed rapidly through many experiences, many intense emotions; and now, menaced by others of which she could not see the end, she suddenly sank down to rest, like a soldier on the field of battle.
She had but two sources of pleasure during this time: one was Helen's companionship, which she had never before valued or appreciated; the other, the services of the Catholic church. The plain little chapel, which had at first repelled her, began to seem to her like a true home of the soul; religious influences sank more and more deeply into her heart; and dimly, as new ideas shape and present themselves, there began to dawn on her the meaning of Helen's simple words. "It certainly would not be happiness if it did not have God's blessing on it," Helen had said. Was it because no blessing of God had been onherhappiness that, in every form, it had so quickly eluded her grasp? She asked herself this question, and when a soul has once asked it the answer is not long in coming. But whether or not it will be heeded when it comes, is too often a matter of doubt. Impressions pass quickly, the sway of the world is hard to break, and who can tell how far the poor soul may be swept into storm and darkness before it is brought safe into port at last?
CHAPTER XXIV.
Theperiod of waiting ended very abruptly one day. It was by this time soft, Indian-summer weather; and Marion was seated in the garden with Helen one afternoon, mellow sunshine and brilliant masses of flowers all around them, when a servant appeared with the intelligence that Mr. Singleton was in the house and wished to see her.
"Mr. Singleton!" she repeated, a little startled. "What Mr. Singleton?"
"Mr. Tom, ma'am," repeated the servant, who had been accustomed to distinguish him in this manner during the life of the elder Mr. Singleton.
"Oh!" she said. And then she turned to Helen with a faint smile. "I don't know whether I am relieved or disappointed," she observed. "I thought it was the other."
"But the other would hardly be likely to come without warning—and alone," returned Helen.
"That is very true. But I wonder what this Mr. Singleton can want—if he has any news?"
"You can only find out by going to see," said Helen.
"Yes," assented Marion. She rose as she spoke, and made a few steps toward the house, then paused and looked back like one who is taking a farewell. "The crisis must be at hand," she said. "I feel as if I were on the verge of a great change. When I see you again, Helen, I may be dispossessed of all my riches."
"Don't talk nonsense!" said Helen, in a matter-of-fact way. "How can you be dispossessed in so short a time?"
The other laughed. "'If 'twere done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,'" she said, and so went on toward the house.
Mr. Singleton, who was awaiting her in the drawing-room, came forward and shook hands very cordially. They had always been good friends, and he had a very kind feeling toward the beautiful and comparatively friendless girl. This kindness had now an emphasis, which she perceived, together with something of compassion. She looked at him and smiled.
"Has the true heir appeared?" she asked; "and have you come to warn me to prepare for abdication?"
"How shrewd you are!" he said. But, in truth, he was much relieved that she was shrewd enough to divine the object of his visit,—a visit which it had required a considerable effort on his part to undertake. "The true heir—if you consider him so—hasappeared; but there is no question of abdication for you. He will be very glad if you consent to compromise, and so save him a contest over the will."
She sat down in a chair conveniently near, looking a little pale. Notwithstanding her question, she had not really anticipated such positive assurance at once; and recognizing this, Mr. Singleton regretted having been so abrupt.
"I thought you expected it," he said; "but I see that you were not quite prepared. I am sorry—"
She put up her hand with a gesture which stopped his words. "There is nothing for which to be sorry," she said. "Of course I expected it, but perhaps not so immediately or so positively. But I don't mean to be foolish: I intend to be quite cool and business-like. Mr. George Singleton has arrived, then. Haveyourecognized him?"
"Perfectly. He has changed very little, considering all things, and there can be no question of his identity."
"Are the other members of the family, and friends of the family, as positive as yourself?"
"Yes: no one has a doubt but that it is George. In fact, no one could have a doubt who had ever known him. He was twenty years old when he went away, and of a very marked personal appearance. The change of sixteen years is by no means so great as might be imagined. Appearance, manner, habits—all prove that he is George himself. Indeed I must be quite frank and tell you that there is not even a peg on which to hang a doubt of his identity."
She looked at him for a moment in silence, her brow drawn together by the earnestness with which she seemed trying to read his face. At length she said, slowly: "I must trust your opinion; I have no one else to trust. And I do not think you would deceive me."
"I certainly would not," he answered, gravely. "Why should I? Putting honor aside, I have nothing to gain by espousing George Singleton's cause. As a matter of fact, I do not espouse it at all. I merely come to you as a friend, and tell you that he is certainly the man he claims to be. And, under these circumstances, I think your best plan will be to compromise with him as speedily as possible."
"Of that there is no question in my mind," she said, with her old air of pride. "If I could, I would not retain the fortune of a man whose son is living. Tell Mr. George Singleton that I will turn over his father's estate to him as soon as may be."
"But that," said Mr. Singleton, with energy, "can not be allowed. As one of the executors of the will, I should protest against it. Whether my uncle believed in the death of his son or not, we can not know, neither can we know how he would have acted if he had certainly been aware of his existence. All that we have to deal with is the simple fact that he left his fortune to you without even mentioning his son's name; and this being so, it is not demanded of you—it is neither just nor right—that you should turn it all over to him."
"But he is the natural and rightful heir to it, and no one shall ever say of me that I grasped or held what rightfully belonged to another."
"My dear young lady, you said a moment ago that you intended to be quite cool and business-like in discussing this matter. Allow me, then, to put it before you in its business-like aspect. You are at the present time the lawful possessor of my uncle's fortune by his direct bequest, and unless the courts set aside his will you must remain so. The issue of an attempt to set aside the will is, of course, uncertain; and the contest would be long, troublesome and costly to all concerned. Recognizing these facts, George Singleton says that he is willing to agree on a liberal basis of compromise. And, since my uncle certainly wished you to haveallhis fortune why should you refuse to retain a part of it?"
"I have already told you, because in justice it belongs to his son; and why should I keep a part any more than the whole of what is not justly mine?"
Mr. Singleton had an air of saying to himself, "Heaven grant me patience!" but, possessing a good deal of that quality, he said aloud: "How in the name of common-sense can that be held to belong to George Singleton which has been given to you? Honestly, if you divide with him it is as much as you can be expected to do."
"It is something I should despise myself for doing," she said, with a sudden flush of color in her face. "You are very kind, Mr. Singleton, and I really believe that you are considering my interest in this matter. But you forget the position I occupy—that of an interloper who has come in to take a fortune away from its natural heirs, and who, no doubt, is held to have schemed to that end.Youknow better than that, I am sure; but the world does not know better, and Mr. George Singleton does not know better. Now, I shall be glad to prove that, although I value wealth and desire wealth—why should I deny it?—I would not acquire it at the cost of my self-respect. Since you say Mr. Singleton's son is certainly living, I do not feel that I have any right to keep his fortune any longer than I can put it out of my hands. Pray be good enough to tell him so."
"My dear Miss Lynde, I can not agree to tell him anything of the kind. You must positively take time for consideration and advice."
She shook her head. "I do not need time, and I shall certainly not seek advice. I have already made up my mind what to do. Can you imagine that I have not considered this in the weeks that I have been waiting? If you decline to give my message to Mr. Singleton, I shall have to communicate with him directly myself."
"It would be best that you should communicate with him directly, if you could by that means be brought to look at the matter in a reasonable light, and see that there is no possible cause why it should not be arranged on the basis of a liberal compromise. Half a million is surely enough to divide."
She put out her hands, as if to push the proposal from her. "I will not hear of it," she said. "I will not seem to grasp money which is not mine. Do not argue the point further, Mr. Singleton. I appreciate your kindness, but I can not yield."
"Well," he said reluctantly, "I am sorry for it. Believe me you are making a great mistake, and one which, in the nature of things, you must regret as time goes on. We are not young and impulsive forever, and some day you will say, 'I had a right to my share of that fortune, and I was wrong to give it up.'"
"It may be," she answered; "but I can not keep it now—I can not! Where is Mr. George Singleton?—where can I address him, if you will not take my message to him? It is impossible for me to address him through his lawyer."
"He will have no use for a lawyer if you persevere in your intention," said Mr. Singleton, shrugging his shoulders. "As for his address, he is here in Scarborough, and quite ready to wait upon you at your convenience, if you will receive him."
She started. This was coming a little closer than she anticipated. And yet, she asked herself, why not? "'Twere well it were done quickly," and it seemed likely now to be done quickly enough. After a moment she said, steadily: "There is no reason why I should not receive him whenever he likes to come, since you assure me that he is really the man he claims to be."
"Of that there can be no doubt."
"Then let him come—the sooner the better. But do not let him bring Mr. Rathborne with him. That person I cannot receive."
"I will come with him myself," said Mr. Singleton. "I should not have thought of doing otherwise."
She held out her hand to him with a grateful gesture. "You are very good to me—very kind," she said. "I shall never forget it."
"I wish you would let me be of some use to you, by taking my advice," he answered.
But when he went away it was with the reflection that women are surely obstinate creatures; and, however charming they may be, they are, as a rule, quite devoid of reason. Marion had proved immovable in her resolution, as also in her determination not to take advice on it. Once fully assured that the man purporting to be Mr. Singleton's son was really so, her mind was made up what to do. She went back into the garden like one moving in a dream, and told Helen the news.
"The fairy tale is over," she said; "my fairy fortune is about to slip away from me. Am I sorry? I think I am more apathetic just now than either glad or sorry. It has not brought me one day of happiness, but I know the world well enough to be aware that it is better to be rich and unhappy than poor and unhappy. Poverty aggravates every other evil; and yet I am not grieved to have the opportunity to prove that I am not so mercenary as—some people doubtless believe me. Brian Earle will not think that I have schemed for his inheritance when he learns that I have voluntarily given it up to his cousin."
Helen looked up with a keenness of perception which was rather unusual in her soft eyes. "I think," she said, "thatthatis the consideration which moves you chiefly. But is it altogether a right consideration? Mr. Earle does not injure you by believing what is untrue of you, but you will injure yourself by giving up everything, and surely you are not bound to do so. If Mr. Singleton had not desired you to have part at least of his fortune, he would never have left you all of it."
"One would think you had heard the arguments of the gentleman who has just gone away," said Marion, smiling. "Dear Helen, don't make me go over it all again. I fear that it is more pride than conscience which makes me feel that I must resign the fortune. But I can never recover my own self-respect until I have done so. And my own self-respect is not another name for the respect of Brian Earle. If I were conscious of being right I might not care that he thought ill of me; but my own judgment echoes his. I have been willing to barter everything of value in life for money, and now it is right enough that the money should be taken from me. I feel as if by giving it up altogether I might recover, not what I have lost—I do not dream of that,—but the right to hope for some form of happiness again."
Helen gravely shook her head. "You talk like a pagan," she said. "All this sounds like propitiating gods, and sacrificing to fate, and things of that kind. The fact is, you are trusting entirely to your own judgment in the matter, and that is strange; for there seems to me a point of conscience involved. Either you have a right to a part of this fortune, or you have not. If you have, why should you give it away to a man who does not ask it and does not need it? While if you have not a right, there would be no more to be said about it; you would have the consciousness of some firm ground under your feet, and no reason hereafter for regret."
"Helen, you astonish me!" said Marion, who certainly looked astonished at this unexpected view of the case. "How on earth did you contrive to get at the kernel of the thing in that manner?"
"Why, there is nothing surprising in that," remarked Helen. "It is the way any Catholic would look at it. Things like that never trouble us. There is always a plain right or a plain wrong."
"And where do you find the law or rule by means of which to tell what is right and what is wrong?"
"There is no difficulty in that," was the reply. "We have certain very clear rules given us, and if there is any difficulty in their application we know where to go to have the difficulty solved."
"To a priest, I suppose?"
"Yes, to a priest. You can not think that strange if you remember that the priest is trained in the most special and careful manner, as well as enlightened by God, in order to enable him to deal with such difficulties."
There was silence for a minute or two, while Marion, leaning back in her chair, looked up at the deep-blue sky, and some golden boughs that crossed it. Presently she said, in a meditative tone:—
"There do not seem to be any difficulties to speak of in this case, but I should not mind putting it before some one altogether outside of it, and without any interest in it. Still, I could not go to a priest, because I am no Catholic."
"You are more of a Catholic than anything else," said Helen. "You know that. And I think if you went to Father Byrne, and put the abstract question to him, he would tell you what is right."
"You forget that I have no right to go to him. It would be presumption on my part. Why should I, who do not belong to his people, trouble him with my personal affairs?"
Helen smiled. "You don't know Father Byrne," she answered. "He is always glad to serve any one. I know that, even as a friend, he would gladly advise you. I will ask him, if you consent."
"Ask him what?"
"To see you and tell you what he thinks."
"Helen, you should not tempt me to make myself a nuisance. Besides, Father Byrne does not like me, and that renders me more reluctant to trouble him."
"What has put such an absurd idea into your head? Why should he not like you?"
"Why? Ah! who can answer such questions? But realty in this case there is an easy answer. He thinks me an objectionable sort of girl; I used to see it in his face when we met at your mother's house. He would look at me sometimes with a mild but quite decided disapproval when I had been saying something particularly frivolous or satirical; and I did not blame him in the least. How could he approve of me?Youare the type of girl that he approves, and he is quite right."
"Marion, I wish you would not say such things."
"But they are true things. And, then, of course he knows the story of how your engagement ended, and very likely thinks me worse than I am in regard to that. Then I am worldly to the tips of my fingers; I have inherited a fortune to which I have no right, and—well, there is no good in going on. These are quite sufficient reasons why Father Byrne does not like me, and why I should not trouble him."
"All this is absolute nonsense; and I will prove that it is, if you do not positively object. I will go to him and ask him to see you, and you will find how quickly he will say yes."
Marion laughed a little—a laugh without any merriment, only a kind of sad self-scorn. "Upon my word," she said, "I am in so weak a frame of mind that a straw might influence me; and this being so, it is a comfort to trust to you, who will never lead any one wrong. Go to Father Byrne, if you will; but don't be surprised if he declines to have anything to do with me."
CHAPTER XXV.
Itwas without the least fear of Father Byrne's declining to have anything to do with Marion that Helen went to him—and it was something of a shock to her to find that Marion had been right in her opinion, and that he very much disapproved of and distrusted that fascinating young lady. He looked troubled at her request, and put out his lip in a way he had when anything perplexed him.
"My dear child," he said, hesitatingly, "I really don't see what I can do for your cousin. She is not a Catholic, she does not come to me for religious advice; and if she wants a worldly opinion, there are many people who could give it much better and with much more propriety than I."
"She does not think so, Father, and neither do I. It is not merely a worldly opinion, though it regards worldly matters; but a point where conscience comes in, and she wants to know what is right."
"But why come to me?" he asked. "Has she not her own spiritual guides?"
"Marion!" said Helen. She laughed a little. "I cannot fancy Marion regarding any Protestant as a spiritual guide; and since, as you say, she is not a Catholic, she has none at all. But I believe that her becoming a Catholic is only a question of time, and therefore she will have confidence in your opinion."
Father Byrne put out his lip still farther and shook his head. "I do not know very much of the young lady," he replied; "but from what I do know I should say that her ever becoming a Catholic is more than doubtful."
"I am afraid that you are prejudiced against her, Father," said Helen.
"I think not," he answered, gravely. "Why should I be prejudiced against any one? But I should profit very little by my experience of the world if I did not learn to judge character from some manifestations. I do not wish to say anything severe of your cousin, my child, but she has not impressed me favorably."
"Poor Marion!" said Helen. "She is and always has been her own worst enemy. Nobody knows her as well as I do, Father—that is, nobody except Claire;—and know how much good there really is in her. All that is worse is on the surface; and she shows it so recklessly that people think there is nothing else. But I see a great change in her of late, and I think it would be well to encourage her in anything that draws her nearer to religious influences. Therefore, if it is not asking too much of you to see her and give her a little advice on this matter, which is so important to her, I should be very glad."
"Should you?" asked the good priest, smiling. "Well, to make you glad in such an unselfish way I would do a good deal. There is really no reason why I should not give Miss Lynde the counsel she asks, though it is rather curious that she should seek it from me. You can bring her to me whenever it is convenient for you; and, if she does not object, I should wish you to be present at the interview."
"She will not object," answered Helen; "and it is very good of you to consent. I can bring her immediately, for I left her in the church while I came to you. There is need for haste, because to-morrow probably she will have to decide finally what she is to do."
"Bring her, then, at once," said Father Byrne, with an air of resignation. He felt, though he did not say, that his own people troubled him quite sufficiently with their personal affairs, without an outsider finding it expedient to throw upon him the very perplexing burden of decision in an affair which involved the interests of others. And Marion Lynde was the last person with whose affairs he would have wished to be concerned in the least degree. If any one beside Helen had come to him in her behalf, he would certainly have refused to do so; but it was impossible for him to refuse Helen. It was not only that he was attached to her, as, in one degree or another, every one who knew her was; but he was specially touched by her interest in and kindness to one who had certainly been the cause of much pain to her, if not of serious injury. "If she had not the most generous heart in the world, she would not vex herself about Miss Lynde's affairs," he said to himself; "but since she does, I should not mind helping her a little."
So it came to pass that Helen brought Marion from the church to the pastoral residence adjoining, where they found Father Byrne awaiting them in the plainly-furnished sitting-room, which had yet a picturesque, monastic suggestion from the religious objects that were its only adornments, and its latticed windows opening on depths of verdure. The priest received them kindly; and then, with some inward nervousness, though outward composure, Marion opened her subject.
"I feel that I have no right at all to come to you, Father, and trouble you with my private matters; but perhaps your kindness will lead you to excuse me on the ground that there is no one else to whom I can go. I have not many friends, and among them there is not one person whose judgment in this case would not have an interested bias. Besides, I should like to know what is the moral view of it—the really right thing to do,—and you, if you will, can tell me that."
"I can give you the view which would be presented to a Catholic," said Father Byrne; "but you will not recognize anything binding in that."
"I shall be bound by whatever you tell me is right," she answered, simply. "I do not seek your advice without meaning to be guided by it, else there would be no excuse for coming to you. I beg you to speak as frankly as if you were addressing a Catholic."
"Tell me, then," he said, "exactly the point on which you are in doubt."
She told him briefly, but with great clearness; and he listened attentively to all that she had to say before uttering a word. Then when she paused he replied, with the air of one who is accustomed to give prompt decisions:—
"From what you tell me I think there can be no question but that you are clearly entitled to retain a part of the fortune. Since it was the desire of the testator that, under the circumstances of the supposed death of his son, you should have all of it, we must believe that even had he known his son to be living he would not have failed to leave you a legacy. It would be entirely just and right, therefore, that you should retain a part, while it is also right that you should resign the bulk of the estate to its natural heir."
Helen directed a triumphant glance toward Marion, which said, "You see how entirely Father Byrne is of my opinion!" but Marion did not perceive it. She was looking down with rather a disappointed air.
"I should prefer to give it all up," she said—"to keep nothing."
Father Byrne spread out his hands with a gesture very familiar to those who knew him well. "There is nothing to prevent that," he observed. "It would not be wrong; but, if you will permit me to say so, it would be foolish. Why should you wish to defeat entirely the kind intentions of the dead man in your behalf?"
"I can hardly explain," she answered, "without going into personal details, which would not interest you. About the manner in which I received this money, my conscience is clear enough; for I did nothing to induce Mr. Singleton to make such a will, and no one was more surprised by it than I. But—before that—" she hesitated, paused, then with an effort went on: "Everything might have been different if I had acted differently at an earlier period. I made a very deliberate and mercenary choice then. It led to this disposition of Mr. Singleton's fortune; and now I feel that there is retribution, punishment, whatever you like to call it, in the circumstances that are taking it away from me. That makes me reluctant to keep any of it. I should feel as if I were still being paid for—what I lost. I express myself obscurely, but I hope that you understand me."
"Yes," he replied, "I think that I do. You feel as if this fortune had been bought at a certain price, and therefore it has lost value in your eyes. That is purely a matter of feeling, with which the abstract question involved has nothing to do—unless there is some point on which your conscience accuses you of wrong-doing."
She shook her head. "There is none directly touching the money. But, indirectly, the money was the root of everything—of a choice which has brought me no happiness."
"And you think, perhaps, that by resigning it you may recover what you have lost?"
She colored vividly. "No," she said quickly, almost indignantly. "I have no thought of the kind. That choice is made irrevocably. I can recover nothing but my own self-respect."
Father Byrne looked a little puzzled. "I fail to see," he said, "how your self-respect has been lost by having a fortune left you which you declare you did nothing to secure. But that is a question for yourself alone, since it is evidently a matter of feeling. The moral point I have answered to the best of my ability."
"You think that I ought to retain part of this fortune?"
"I cannot go so far as to say that youought. There is no moral obligation binding you to do so, as far as I am aware of the circumstances. I can only say that it is clearly right for you to do so—if you think fit."
Evidently after this there was no more to be said; and Marion rose to take leave, saying a few words of sincere thanks for the kindness with which he had received her. "It has been very good of you to advise me," she said, gratefully. "I shall never forget it."
"I only hope that the advice may be of some use to you," answered Father Byrne. "But it will be better if you ask God to guide and direct you."
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked Helen, when they found themselves outside. "Have you decided what to do?"
"Not yet," said Marion. "I have only been told what I may do, and I must take a little time to decide whether or not I will do it."
"Then you have really gained nothing by going to Father Byrne," Helen continued, in a disappointed tone.
"Oh, yes! I have gained a great deal," the other said quickly. "I seem to feel myself standing on firm ground—to know just what I ought to do and what I ought not, what is permitted and what is not. The question still remains, however, whether or not to do what is permitted."
"I can't see that you have gained much," replied Helen, with a sigh.
But Marion felt that she had gained much when she faced the question alone, as all important questions must at last be faced. She had been assured that there was no reason why she should not retain a part of the money which had come into her possession; and she said to herself that even Brian Earle—indeed Brian Earle of all men—would recognize the authority of the voice which had so assured her. She need not hold herself grasping and mercenary if she did this—if she kept a little of the fortune that its possessor had given to her in its entirety. So much, therefore, was clear. But there could be no doubt that she would prefer to give it all up—to close forever the passage in her life which had been so bitter, and in the end so humiliating; to disprove by a magnificent act of generosity all the charges of scheming which she felt sure had been made against her, and to know that Brian Earle would learn that none of his uncle's money remained in her hands.
But if she gratified herself in this manner what was before her? Not only the old dependence, but a dependence which would be doubly embittered by the resentment with which her relatives were sure to regard the step which she thought of taking. "My uncle will never forgive me," she thought. "He will say that I had no right to throw away the means to help myself, and fall back on his already overburdened hands. That is true. It will be bitter as death to do so. And yet how can I keep this money? Oh, if I only had been spared the necessity of such a choice! If it was wrong to desire wealth so much, surely I am punished for it, since what it has brought on me is worse than the poverty from which I have escaped. That, at least, was simple; I had only to endure it. But this is fraught with serious consequences, that go beyond myself and touch other people. What shall I do—ah! what shall I do?"
She was walking up and down her chamber, all alone in the silence of the night. Suddenly, as she wrung her hands with the silent force of her inward appeal, Father Byrne's last words recurred to her memory: "It will be better if you ask God to guide and direct you." She stopped short. Was there any hope that God would really do this if she ventured to ask Him? It proved how much of an unconscious pagan she was that such a question should have occurred to her. But the imperative need at this moment for some guidance, stronger even than that to which she had already appealed, seemed to answer the question. She sank on her knees and lifted her heart to Him who hears all petitions, begging, simply, earnestly, like a child, to be directed into the course right and best to pursue.
The next morning Marion's companion—a quiet, elderly widow—noticed that she was more than usually restless; that she settled to no occupation, but wandered from the house to the garden and back again; from room to room and window to window, as if in expectation of some event. Mrs. Winter was not a person easily "fidgeted:" she bore this for some time without remark, but at length she was driven to say, "You are looking for some one this morning?"
"Yes," answered Marion, promptly. "I am looking for two people, and I have very important business to settle when they come. That makes me a little restless. I wish it were over." Then she laughed a little. "It is not every day, however, that one has a chance to see a dead man," she said. "That should prove interesting."
Mrs. Winter looked startled. "A dead man!" she repeated. "How—what do you mean?"
"I mean," replied Marion, calmly, "that it is a case of the dead alive. You have not heard, then? If you went out into Scarborough, I fancy you would hear very quickly. Mr. Singleton's son, who was supposed to be dead, has proved to be very much alive, and I am expecting a visit from him to-day."
"My dear Miss Lynde!"—the good woman fairly gasped—"what a piece of news! And how quietly you take it! Mr. Singleton's son alive! Good Heavens! In that case, who will have the property?"
"That is what we are going to settle," said Marion. "It strikes me that a son should inherit his father's estate; do you not think so?"
"I don't know," answered Mrs. Winter, more than ever confounded by this cool inquiry. "Usually—oh! yes, I suppose so," she added after a minute. "But in this case—the young man was so wild that his father cast him off, did he not?"
"I never heard the story clearly from any one who had authority to tell it," answered Marion. "I do not know what occurred between father and son, but I am quite sure that Mr. Singleton believed his son to be dead when he made the will in which he left me his fortune."
"Then, my dear, if I may ask, what do you mean to do?"
"What is right and honest," said Marion, with a faint smile. "Wish me courage, for there is the door-bell!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
Thefirst thing of which Marion was conscious when she entered the drawing-room was that a pair of bold, bright and keen dark eyes were instantly fastened on her. The owner of these eyes was a tall and very striking-looking man, whose originally brunette skin was so deeply bronzed by exposure to a tropical sun that he scarcely had the appearance of a white man at all; but whose clear-cut features at once recalled those of old Mr. Singleton, whose whole aspect was so unusual and so remarkably handsome that it would have been impossible for him either to personate or be mistaken for any one else. Marion recognized this even while Mr. Tom Singleton was in the act of stepping forward to take her hand, and said to herself that no one who had ever seen this man once could doubt whether or not he was the person he assumed to be.
"How do you do this morning, Miss Lynde?" said Mr. Singleton, who tried to conceal a certain awkwardness under more than his usual geniality of manner. "I hope we have not disturbed you too early, but I had your permission to present my cousin, Mr. George Singleton."
"Not my permission only, but my request," observed Marion, looking at the tall, handsome stranger, who bowed. "I am very glad to see Mr. George Singleton—at last."
"You are very good to say so," replied that gentleman, easily. "I assure you that, so far from expecting you to be glad to see me, I feel as apologetic as possible about my existence. Pray believe, Miss Lynde, that I mean to give you as little trouble as possible. I have no doubt we can soon arrive at an amicable arrangement."
"I have no doubt of it," said Marion, calmly. "But you will allow me to say how sorry I am that any arrangement should be necessary,—that your father was not aware of your existence when he made his will."
Mr. George Singleton shrugged his shoulders. "I am by no means certain that my father believed me to be dead," he answered. "At least he had no special reason for such a belief. He had indeed not heard from or of me in a long time, because that was thoroughly settled when we parted. I threw off his control, and he washed his hands of me. But I hardly thought he would ignore me completely in his will. No doubt he had a right to do so, for I had ignored every duty of a son; but he should have remembered that he also had something to answer for in our estrangement. However, that is neither here nor there. What I mean to say is that the consciousness of my shortcomings will make me easy to deal with; for I feel that my father was in great measure justified when he selected another heir."
This cool, careless frankness was so unexpected that for a moment Marion could only look at the speaker with a sense of surprise. He was so totally unlike what she had imagined! His bold, bright glance met hers, and, as if divining her thoughts, he smiled.
"Don't expect me to be like other people, Miss Lynde," he continued. "Tom here will tell you that I never was. Even as a boy I was always a law unto myself—a wild creature whom nothing could tame or restrain. Perhaps it is because I am still something of a wild man that I see no reason why we should not discuss and settle this business between us in a friendly manner. I have only the most friendly sentiments for you, being aware that my coming to life is rather hard lines for you."
Marion could not but respond to his smile and what seemed to be the genuine though somewhat blunt friendliness of his manner. Yet when she spoke her tone was slightly haughty.
"Pray do not think of me," she said. "The fact that your father left his fortune to me was the greatest surprise of my life,—a surprise from which I have hardly yet recovered. Naturally, therefore, it will be no great hardship to give it up."
"But I don't ask you to give it up," replied the tall, dark man, hastily. "There is enough to divide, and I assure you I am not a grasping fellow. Ask Tom if I am."
Mr. Tom Singleton smiled. "If so," he observed, "you must have changed very much."
"I haven't changed a particle. I did not give a thought to my father's fortune when I left him: I was thinking only of freedom, of escape from irksome control. And I hardly gave it a thought during the years that I have been out yonder, thoroughly satisfied with my own mode of life. I should not be here now but for the fact that a lawyer—what is his name?—took the trouble to write and inform me that my father was dead and I disinherited. Naturally one does not like to be ignored in that way; so I replied, directing him to contest the will. But since I have come, heard the circumstances of the case, and—and seen you, Miss Lynde, I perceive no reason for any such contest. We'll settle the matter more simply, if you say so."
"Seen you Miss Lynde!" It sounded simple enough, but the eyes of this wild man, as he called himself, emphasized the statement so that Marion could not doubt that her beauty might again secure for her an easy victory—if she cared for it. But she did not suffer this consciousness to appear in her manner or her voice as she replied:—
"We can settle it very simply, I think. Shall we now put aside the preliminaries and proceed to business?"
"Immediately, if you desire," answered Mr. Singleton. He bent forward slightly, pulling his long, dark moustache with a muscular, sunburned hand, while his brilliant gaze never wavered from Marion's face. His cousin also looked at her, apprehensively as it seemed, and gave a nervous cough. She met his eyes for an instant and smiled gravely, then turned her glance back to the other man.
"I am very sure, Mr. Singleton," she said, "that your father must have left his fortune to me under a wrong impression of your death. If this were not so he certainly left it under a false impression of my character. To retain money of which the rightful heir is living, is something of which I could never be guilty if every court of law in the land declared that the will should stand. Your father's fortune, then, is yours, and I will immediately take steps to resign all claim of mine upon it."
"But I have not asked you to resign more than a portion of it," answered Singleton, impetuously. "It is right enough that you should have half, since my father gave you the whole."
"You are very generous," she said, with a proud gentleness of tone; "but it is quite impossible for me to keep the half of your fortune. Your father would never have left it to me but for circumstances which need not be entered into—he wished to punish some one else. But he could never have wished to disinherit his son. I am certain of that. He liked me, however—I think I may say as much as that; he was very kind to me, and I believe that even if he had known of your existence he might have remembered me with a legacy; do you not think so?" She turned, as she uttered the last words, to Mr. Tom Singleton.
"I am sure of it," replied that gentleman.
"Believing this, I am willing to take what he would have been likely to give. It is rather difficult, of course, to conjecture what the exact amount would have been, but it seems to me that he would probably have left me about ten thousand dollars."
Both men uttered a sharp exclamation. "Absurd! You must certainly take more than that," said George Singleton.
"Remember that you are giving up half a million," remarked his cousin.
But Marion shook her head. "It is with extreme reluctance," she said, "that I have decided to take anything. Mr. Singleton is aware that my intention yesterday was to keep nothing, but I have been advised to the contrary by one whose opinion I respect; and so I have determined to take what I think your father, under ordinary circumstances, might have given one with no claim upon him, but in whom he had taken an interest."
"But why should you fix upon such a paltry sum?" demanded George Singleton. "There was nothing niggardly about my father. He was cold and hard as an icicle, but he always gave like a prince."
"That would have been a very generous bequest to one who had touched his life as slightly as I had," remarked Marion, "and who had no claim upon him whatever—"
"He calls you his adopted daughter in his will."
"He was very good to me," she replied, simply, while tears came to her eyes. "But I think he only said that to make such a disposition of his fortune seem more reasonable. Your cousin here has perhaps told you, or at least he can tell you, all the circumstances—how your father was disappointed in some one else on whom he had set his heart."
"Brian Earle," said George Singleton, carelessly. "Yes, I know."
"Well, he thought that I had been disappointed too; and so—partly from a generous impulse to atone for the disappointment, and partly from a desire to punish one who had greatly angered him—he mademehis heir. But it was all an accident, a caprice, if I may say so; and if he had lived longer he would have undone it, no doubt."
"You did not know my father if you think so," said the son, quietly. "He had caprices perhaps, but they hardened into resolutions that never changed. Who should know that better than I? No, no, Miss Lynde, this will never do! I can not take a fortune from your hands without litigation or any difficulty whatever, and leave you only a paltry ten thousand dollars. It is simply impossible."
"It is altogether impossible that I can retain any more," answered Marion. "As I have already said, I would prefer to retain none at all; and if I consent to keep anything, it can only be such a moderate legacy as might have been left me."
"As wouldneverhave been left to you! My father was not a man to do things in that manner. What was your legacy, Tom?"
"Fifty thousand dollars," replied Mr. Tom Singleton.
"Something like that I might agree to, Miss Lynde, if you will insist on the legacy view of the matter; but I should much prefer to simply divide the fortune."
"You are certainly your father's son in generosity, Mr. Singleton," said Marion. "But believe me you are wasting words. My resolution is finally taken. I shall make over your fortune to you, retaining only ten thousand dollars for myself. That is settled."
It was natural, however, that neither of the two men would accept this settlement of the case. Both declared it was manifestly unjust, and each exhausted his powers of argument and persuasion in trying to move Marion. It was a singular battle; a singular turn in an altogether singular affair;—and when at last they were forced to go without having altered her resolution, they looked at each other with a sense of baffled defeat, which presently made George Singleton burst into a laugh.
"By Jove!" he said, "this is a reversal of the usual order of things. To think of a disinherited man, instead of having to fight for his rights, being forced to beg and pray that his supplanter will keep a fair share of the inheritance! What makes the girl so obstinate? Has she money besides?"
"I don't believe that she has a sixpence," replied his cousin.
"Then what on earth, in the name of all that is wonderful, is the meaning of it? She does not look like a fool."
Mr. Singleton laughed. "Miss Lynde," he said, "is about as far from being a fool as it is possible to imagine. We all thought her at first very shrewd and scheming, and there is no doubt but that she might have wound your father round her finger without any trouble at all. She is just the kind of a person he liked best: beautiful, clever—henever fancied fools, you know,—and she charmed him, without any apparent effort, from the first. But if she schemed for any share of his fortune it was in a very subtle way—"
"In the light of her conduct now, I don't see how it is possible to believe that she ever schemed at all," interposed the other.
"Idon'tbelieve it," said Tom Singleton; "although the fact remains that, in choosing between Brian and his uncle, she stood by the latter."
"There might have been other than mercenary considerations for that. I can't imagine that this splendid creature ever cared about marrying Brian."
Mr. Singleton did not commit himself to an opinion on that point. He said, diplomatically: "It is hard to tell what a woman does care to do in such a case, and Miss Lynde by no means wears her heart on her sleeve. Well, the long and short of the matter was that Brian obstinately went away, and that your father made this girl his heir—for the very reasons she has given, I have no doubt. She was most genuinely astonished when I told her the news, and my belief that she had ever schemed for such a result was shaken then. But from something she said to me yesterday I think she is afraid that such a belief lingers in people's minds, and she is determined to disprove it as completely as possible. Hence her quixotic conduct. I can explain it in no other way."
"She is a queer girl," observed George Singleton, meditatively; "and so handsome that I don't wonder she knocked over my father—who was always a worshiper of beauty,—and even that solemn prig, Mr. Brian Earle, without loss of time."
"She knocked over another man here in Scarborough, who has a hand in her affairs at present," said Mr. Singleton, significantly. "Did it ever occur to you to wonder why that fellow Rathborne should have interested himself to look you up and notify you of your lost inheritance?"
"Why should I wonder over anything so simple? Self-interest prompted him, of course. If there had been a contest over the will, he might have pocketed a considerable slice of the fortune."
"Well, I suppose that influenced him; but his chief reason was a desire to do Miss Lynde an ill turn, and so revenge himself for her having trifled with his feelings."
"You are sure of this?" asked George Singleton, with a quick look out of his dark, flashing eyes.
"Perfectly sure. Everyone in Scarborough knows the circumstances. He considered himself very badly used, I believe—chiefly because he was engaged to Miss Lynde's cousin; and the latter, who is something of an heiress, broke the engagement. He fell between two stools, and has never forgiven her who was the cause of the fall."
"The wretched cad!" said George Singleton, emphatically. "As if anything that a woman could do to a man would justify him in such cowardly retaliation! I am glad you told me this. I will end my association with him as soon as may be, and let him know at the same time my opinion of him—and of Miss Lynde."
"Do be cautious, George. I shall be sorry I told you the story if you go out of your way to insult the man in consequence. No doubt hewasbadly used."
The other laughed scornfully. "As if that would excuse him! But I don't believe a word of it. That girl is too proud ever to have taken the trouble to usehimbadly. But a man might lose his head just by looking at her. What a beauty she is!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Andnow the question is—what am I to do?" It was Marion who asked herself this, after the departure of the lawyer, who, with some remonstrance, had taken her instructions for drawing up the necessary papers to transfer to George Singleton his father's fortune. It was not with regard to the act itself that the lawyer remonstrated—thathe thought just and wise enough,—but with regard to the sum which the heiress of the whole announced her intention of retaining.
"You might just as well keep fifty or a hundred thousand dollars," he declared. "Mr. Singleton is willing to relinquish even so much as half of the fortune; and it is absolute folly—if you will excuse me—for you to throw away a comfortable independence, and retain only a sum which is paltry in comparison to the amount of the fortune, and to your needs of life."
"You must allow me to be the best judge of that," Marion replied, firmly.
And, as she held inflexibly to her resolution, the lawyer finally went away with the same baffled feeling that the Singleton cousins had experienced. "What fools women are when it comes to the practical concerns of life!" he said, from the depths of his masculine scorn. "They are always in one extreme or the other. Here is this girl, who, from what I hear, must have been willing to do anything to secure the fortune, now throws it away for a whim without reason!"
Meanwhile Marion, left face to face, as it were, with her accomplished resolve, said to herself, "What am I to do now?"
It was certainly a necessary question. To remain where she was, living with the state of Mr. Singleton's heiress, was impossible; to go to her uncle, who would be incensed against her on account of the step she had taken, was equally impossible; to stay with Helen, however much Helen in her kindness might desire it, was out of the question. Where, then, could she go?—where should she turn to find a friend?
Marion was pacing up and down the long drawing-room as she revolved these thoughts in her mind, when her attention was attracted by her own reflection in a mirror which hung at the end of the apartment. She paused and stood looking at it, while a faint, bitter smile gathered on her lip. Her beauty was as striking, as indisputable as ever; but what had it gained for her—this talisman by which she had confidently hoped to win from the world all that she desired? "I have been a fool!" she said, with sudden humility. "And now—what remains to me now?"
It almost seemed as if it was in answer to the question that a servant at this moment entered, bringing the morning mail. Marion turned over carelessly two or three papers and letters, and then suddenly felt a thrill of pleasure when she saw a foreign stamp and Claire's familiar handwriting. She threw herself into a chair and opened the letter.
It was dated from Rome. "I am at last in the city of my dreams and of my heart," wrote Claire; "pleasantly settled in an apartment with my kind friend Mrs. Kerr, who knows Rome so well that she proves invaluable as acicerone. Already I, too, feel familiar with this wonderful, this Eternal City; and its spell grows upon me day by day. Now that you have gained your fairy fortune, dear Marion, why should you not come and join me here? I have thought of it so much of late that it seems to me like an inspiration, and I can perceive no possible reason why you should not come. Pray do. It would make me so happy to see you, and I am sure you would enjoy many things which form part of our life here. Having lived abroad many years with her husband (who was an artist), Mrs. Kerr has a large cosmopolitan acquaintance, and hersalonis constantly filled with pleasant and interesting people. Come,—Marion, come! I find every reason why you should, and none why you should not. Have I not heard you say a thousand times that you wanted to see this world, and do not I want to see you and hear all about the magical change that so short a time has made in your fortunes? Write, then, and tell me that you will come. Helen has had you for months, and it is my turn now."
"Ah, how little she knows!" Marion thought with a pang as she read the last words. The letter dropped from her hand into her lap; she felt as if she hardly cared to read further. Would Claire desire to see her if she knew the story of all that had happened since they parted? There was no one else in the world from whose judgment Marion shrank so much, and yet this summons seemed to her more of a command than an invitation. It came as an answer to her doubts and indecision. "What shall I do?—where shall I go?" she had asked herself. "Come to me," Claire answered from across the sea; and it seemed to her that she had no alternative but to obey—to go, even though it were to meet Claire's condemnation.
That condemnation would be gentle, she knew, though perhaps unsparing. Helen's affection had indeed returned to her in a degree she could never have expected; but it is impossible that the stronger nature can depend upon the weaker, and she knew it was for Claire's unswerving standards and Claire's clear judgments her heart most strongly yearned.
So the way opened before her, and when she saw Helen next she announced her intention of going abroad to join Claire. "It seems the best—in fact, it is the only thing I can do," she said. "And Claire is good enough to want me. She fancies me still in possession of what she calls my fairy fortune—not knowing how fairy-like indeed it has proved,—and writes as if expense would be no consideration with me. But a mode of life which is not too expensive for her surely will not be too expensive for me with my ten thousand dollars. So I shall go."
"I suppose it is best," said Helen, wistfully; "and if it were not for mamma I would go with you."
The tone was a revelation to Marion of all that the tender, submissive heart was suffering still. "Why should your mother object?" she asked, quickly. "Come, Helen—come with me; and when we find Claire, let us try to forget everything but the pleasure of being together again."
"I should like it," replied Helen, "but it is not possible. I know how long mamma has looked forward to the pleasure of having me with her, and I can not go away now for my own selfish satisfaction, leaving her alone. Besides, I doubt if running away from painful things does much good. It is better to face them and grow resigned to them, with the help of God."
"I am sure that God must helpyou," cried Marion, "else you could never learn so many wise and hard things."
Helen looked at her with a little surprise in her clear blue eyes. "Of course He helps me," she answered. "When does He not help those who ask Him?"
"O Helen! if I only had your faith!" exclaimed Marion, with positive pain in her voice. "How easy it would make things!"
"Yes," replied Helen, with her sweet smile, "it does make things easy."
But before Marion could complete her preparations for departure, she was obliged to see Mr. George Singleton again and yet again. He came in the first place to remonstrate forcibly against her intentions with regard to the fortune, and found her society sufficiently attractive to induce him to pay inordinately long visits after he had discovered that his remonstrances were vain. "He is certainly very unconventional," Marion observed after one of these visits. "He does not strike one so much as violating social usage, as being ignorant of and holding it in contempt. In essential things he is a gentleman; but that his father—one of the most refined and fastidious of men—should have had a son who is half a savage, strikes me as very strange."
Young Singleton did not hesitate to speak of himself as altogether a savage, and to declare that the strain of wild lawlessness in his nature had brought about the estrangement between his father and himself. "Of course I am sorry for it all now," he said frankly to Marion; "but I don't see how it could have been avoided, we were so radically different in disposition and tastes. My father was a man to whom the conventionalties of life were of first importance, who held social laws and usages as more binding than the Decalogue; while I—well, a gypsy has as much regard for either as I had. I irritated and outragedhimeven when I had least intention of doing so; and he, in turn, roused all the spirit of opposition inme. I do not defend my conduct, but I think I may honestly say that he had something for which to blame himself. We were miserable together, and it ended as you know. He said when we parted that he had no longer a son, and I took him at his word—perhaps too literally. And that being so, Miss Lynde—his renunciation of me having been complete, and my acceptance of it complete also,—I really do not think that I have a right to come and take all his fortune."
"I am sorry if you have scruples on the subject, Mr. Singleton," Marion answered, quietly. "They ought to have occurred to you before you moved in the matter; now they are too late. I can not possibly accept the odium of holding a man's fortune when his own son is alive and has claimed it."
"But you know that I have always said I should be satisfied with part—"
Marion lifted her hand with a silencing gesture. "I know," she said, "that the affair is finally settled, and not to be discussed anymore. I am satisfied, and that ought to satisfy you. Now let us talk of something else. Are you aware that I am going abroad?"
"No," he replied, quickly, with a startled look. "Where are you going?"
"To Rome. I have a friend who is at present living there, and I am going to join her."
"But why?"
The point-blank question was so much in character with the speaker that Marion smiled.
"Why?" she repeated. "Well, I have nothing to keep me in this country, I am fond of my friend, and I wish to see the world—are not those reasons enough?"
"Perhaps so," he answered. He was silent for a moment, staring at her with his large, dark, brilliant eyes in a manner which tried even her self-possession. Then he asked, abruptly: "When are you going?"
"As soon as I can arrange my affairs. That sounds like a jest, but it is not: I really have some affairs to arrange. They will not occupy me very long, however. I shall probably leave in a week or ten days."
"Oh—I thought you might be going to-morrow!" said Mr. Singleton, with an air of relief.
After that he was a daily visitor,—such an open, persistent, long-staying visitor, that all Scarborough was soon on tiptoe of expectation. What did it mean? What would be the end of this sensational affair? Would the legitimate heir of the fortune marry the girl who had given it up without a contest? People began to say that Miss Lynde had been shrewd, and had known very well all the time what she was about.