Several weeks passed, during which the acquaintance of Marion with the
Singletons progressed rapidly to intimacy--such intimacy, that Helen
protested more than once that her cousin spent more time with Mrs.
Singleton than with herself. She was certainly very often the companion
of that lady--seen by her side in the pretty phaeton which she drove,
met at all her entertainments, called upon for all occasions when she
needed assistance, social or otherwise. The vaguely understood link of
relationship between them served as an excuse for this, had any excuse
been required beside the caprice of the elder and the inclination of
the younger lady. "I have discovered a cousin in Miss Lynde," Mrs.
Singleton would say to her Scarborough acquaintances. "Do you not
think that I am very fortunate?" And there were few who did not reply
honestly that they considered her very fortunate indeed.
But the person who regarded this association most approvingly was old
Mr. Singleton, since it secured him a great deal of Marion's society,
for which he evinced a partiality. It was, in fact, to this partiality
that Marion owed Mrs. Singleton's attentions. "Your uncle has taken a
most extraordinary fancy to that girl, Tom." she said to her husband
at a very early stage of the acquaintance; "so I think that I had
better cultivate her. It will be better for me to use her as a means
to contribute to his amusement than to let her develop into a power
against us. There is no counting on the whims of an old man, you know."
"Especially of _this_ old man," assented Mr. Singleton. "He is capable
of anything. Therefore I don't think I would have the girl about too
much."
"It is better for me to have her about than for him to take her up. If
he considers her my _protégée_, he will not be so likely to make her
his own. I have given the matter some thought, and that is the way I
look at it."
"You may be right," said easy-going Mr. Singleton. "I have great
confidence in your way of looking at things, and of managing them too.
But I confess that I have no confidence in this handsome and clever
young lady. I don't think she would hesitate to play one any trick."
"Confidence in _her_!" said Mrs. Singleton, with scorn. "Of course I
have not a particle. But she will have no opportunity to play me a
trick. Be sure of that."
Meanwhile Helen said to Marion, rather doubtfully: "Marion, do you
really like Mrs. Singleton very much? She is very pleasant and very
elegant, but somehow--I hope I am not uncharitable--I never feel as if
one could thoroughly trust her."
"My dear," replied Marion, with her mocking smile, "do you know, or
fancy that you know, many people whom you can 'thoroughly trust'? If
so, you are more fortunate than I am; for I have known only one or two
in my life."
"O Marion! no more than that? How can you be so unjust to your friends?"
"I have no friends, in the true sense of the term, except you and
Claire. I trust _you_."
"I hope so, and I you--most thoroughly."
Marion regarded her with something like wonder. "Now, why," she said,
dispassionately, "should you trust me? I am sure I have never shown a
character to inspire that sentiment."
"You delight in showing your worst side," answered Helen; "but it does
not deceive me. I know that the worst is not as bad as you would have
it believed to be, and that the best exists all the time."
"It certainly exists for you, and always will," said Marion, quickly.
"There is nothing I could not sooner do than betray your trust."
"How can you even hint such a thing!" exclaimed Helen, indignantly. "Do
you think I could ever fear it?"
"No," replied Marion; "I am sure that you would never fear it from
any one whom you love. But you may have to suffer it some day,
nevertheless."
The speaker's tone had more significance than she intended, and Helen
looked at her with a glance of sudden apprehension. "What do you mean?"
she asked. "Why should I fear it?"
"Why should any of us fear that we will have to share in the common
lot--the common knowledge of evil as well as of good?" said Marion,
evasively. "We must all expect it; at least that is one of the pleasant
things we are told."
"Oh! yes, I suppose we must expect it," said Helen. "But expecting a
thing in a general way, and doubting any--any one in particular, is a
very different matter."
The conversation ended here; but the mere fact that she had been so
quick to take alarm might have told Helen that, unconsciously to
herself, suspicion had taken some root in her mind. The readiness with
which she put herself into an attitude of defense showed that she
feared attack. And, indeed, she had already suffered more than one
attack on the subject of Rathborne--if that could be called attack
which was only the expression of a gentle doubt, first from her mother,
and then from the priest, who, distrusting all such marriages in
general, had special reasons for distrusting this one in particular.
Like most priests, he had many sources of information; many streams
flowed, as it were, into the silent reservoir of his mind; and in
this way things concerning Rathborne had come to his knowledge, which
rendered him deeply averse to seeing Helen link her pure young life
with that of a man so unscrupulous and selfish. Loath to give pain
if unable to achieve any practical good thereby, he had spoken very
guardedly to her when she sought his counsel; but, perhaps because he
spoke with so much caution, his words sank deeply into her mind, and
left a sense of weight behind. But it was one of her characteristics
that, after once reposing confidence in a person, she could not lightly
recall it; and she clung to Rathborne more closely for the opposition
which she attributed to mistaken judgment.
Nevertheless, Helen was already learning something of what Marion
called the common lot,--she was acquiring some knowledge of
the difficulty of reconciling conflicting desires, and of the
impossibility of finding things made smooth and easy. Now and then
there was a wistful look in her eyes, which touched her mother deeply,
and made her ready to consent to anything which would restore sunshine
to one who seemed so wholly made to enjoy it.
But Mrs. Dalton was not blind to one fact, which may or may not have
been clear to Helen,--the significant fact that Rathborne had not,
since the return home of her daughter, pressed his suit with his former
ardor. He had not begged that the conditional and merely tolerated
engagement should be converted into an open and positive one; he seemed
quite satisfied with matters as they stood, and took Helen's sentiments
entirely too much for granted, so Helen's mother thought. What to do,
however, she did not clearly perceive, and Father Barrett strongly
advised a policy of inaction. "Let matters take their own course," he
said. "I am of opinion that Helen may be spared what you fear most
for her; but this cannot be brought about by any effort of yours,
which would tend, on the contrary, to rouse opposition. If the child
must suffer, in any event do not let her have the additional pain of
thinking that she owes any of the suffering to you."
To this counsel Mrs. Dalton gave heed--or thought she did. But many
things betrayed to Helen that her mother's disapproval of Rathborne's
suit had not lessened with time. Anxious to avoid any possible
conflict, the girl shrank from broaching the subject; but it was
a growing pain to her affectionate nature that there should be a
subject--and that the nearest her heart and life--in which she was not
sure of her mother's sympathy--where her deepest feelings might yet be
arrayed against each other, and a difficult choice be made necessary.
To Marion, meantime, Rathborne had become somewhat troublesome. As we
learn in many an old legend that it is easier to raise a fiend than to
put him down, so she found it easier to make the impression which she
had desired than to regulate the effect of that impression. She had
made it with the utmost ease,--an ease very flattering to her vanity;
but, innocent as she had been of any intention save that of gratifying
vanity, retribution followed hard upon her steps. Apart from the fact
that she was incapable of deliberately betraying Helen's confidence,
she trusted Rathborne no further than most other people did. Moreover,
her arrogance of spirit was as great as her ambition, and she
considered herself fitted for a position much higher than he could
possibly offer her--had she believed him ready to offer anything. But,
so far from believing this, she gave him no credit for any sincerity of
intention toward her, knowing well that self-interest was the sole rule
of his life. "He dares to think that he can amuse himself with me and
then marry Helen!" she thought. "There may be two who can play at that
game. Let us see!"
The thought that it was a very dangerous game did not occur to her;
or, if it occurred, did not deter her. At this time of her life she
had only a sense of worldly honor to deter her from anything which
she desired to do; and she desired most sincerely to punish the man
whom she believed to be true neither to Helen nor herself. Therefore,
although his attentions began to annoy her, she did not discourage
them, notwithstanding that she noted scornfully how he avoided, as
far as possible, devoting himself to her when he was likely to be
observed. But his precautions had not saved him, as we are aware, from
the keen observation of Frank Morely; and Mrs. Dalton herself, with
eyes sharpened by a mother's anxiety, began to perceive that Marion
possessed a great attraction for him.
Matters were in this by no means satisfactory state when Mrs.
Singleton, growing weary of other forms of amusement, decided to
patronize Nature. There was a great deal of beautiful scenery in
the vicinity of Scarborough, which she declared had been too long
neglected. "A picnic is horrid!" she said. "The very word is full
of vulgar associations, and the thing itself is tiresome beyond
expression. One would grow weary of the most delightful people in the
world if doomed to spend a whole day in the woods with them. But a few
hours in the pleasantest part of the day--that is another matter. A
gypsy tea is just the thing! We will go out in the afternoon to Elk
Ridge, have tea, look at the sunset, and return by moonlight; is not
that a good idea?"
"Excellent," said the persons whom she addressed--a party of five
or six who had been dining with her. "It will make a very pleasant
excursion, only we must be sure of the moon."
"Oh! we have only to consult the almanac for that," said the lively
hostess. "I think there is a new moon due about this time."
Marion laughed, and, touching the arm of old Mr. Singleton, by whom she
sat, pointed out of a western window to the evening sky, where hung the
beautiful crescent of the moon, framed between the arching boughs of
tall trees.
"Hum--yes," observed that gentleman. "Anna's attention to Nature is
altogether controlled by the question of whether or not it can be made
to contribute to her amusement. Now that the moon has arrived, it will
not be long before the gypsy tea takes place."
And, indeed, in a few days all arrangements for this festivity were
completed, the party made up, and the programme settled. Mrs. Singleton
wished that Marion should accompany her; but Helen protested so much
against this that the arrangement was changed; and it was finally
settled that Marion and herself, with Rathborne and Morley, would make
up a _parti carré_ in a light open carriage.
There is nothing more attractive to youth, nothing more suited to
its natural lightness of heart and spirit, than such pleasures as
these--golden afternoons in summer woods and under summer skies;
sunsets when all nature is flooded with beauty, like a crystal cup
filled to the brim; and nights of spiritual, entrancing loveliness.
Even with older persons, the sense of care seems lifted from the mind
for a little time among such scenes; while to the young and happy, care
is a thing impossible to realize when earth itself in transformed into
Arcadia.
So Helen felt as she started on this excursion. In some subtle fashion,
the doubts which had weighed upon her for a considerable time past
were lifted. She did not say to herself that she had been foolish, for
she was little given to self-analysis; but involuntarily she felt it,
involuntarily she threw off the shadow which had fallen over her, and
grasped the pleasure offered, as a child puts out its hand to grasp
sunbeams. When they drove away, her heart was as light as a feather,
her face as bright as the day, and she turned back to wave her hand in
gay farewell to her mother.