When Marion returned to the party, who were preparing for their
homeward drive, Frank Morley came up to her with a very grave face.
"Helen tells me that she is feeling so bad, Miss Lynde," he said,
coldly, "that she wishes me to take her home. I have, therefore,
arranged for our return in the buggy in which Netta came out, and she
and her escort will take our places in the carriage with you."
"Make whatever arrangement you please," answered Marion, as coldly as
himself; "but pray leave me out of it. There is a vacant seat in Mrs.
Singleton's carriage, which I shall take for the return."
"Very well--the matter, is settled, then," he said. "I will take Helen
away at once." And he walked off with a scant courtesy, which his youth
and indignation excused.
But it was a new sensation to Marion to be treated with discourtesy by
any one; and she had to pull herself together with an effort before she
was able to approach Mrs. Singleton in her usual manner, and announce
that she was willing to take the seat she had before declined.
"I don't like to repeat anything, not even a drive, in exactly the
same manner," she said by way of explanation; "so if you will allow me,
I will join you for the homeward drive."
"I shall be delighted to have you," answered Mrs. Singleton. "I thought
you would do better to come with me. Tom will be delighted, too. You
shall sit with him, and drive if he will let you."
Good-natured Mr. Singleton was much pleased to share his box seat with
such a companion, and even to make over the reins to her whenever
the road was good enough to allow of it with safety; while to Marion
there was distraction from her own thoughts--from the recollection
of unpleasant complications, and the sense of angry humiliation--in
guiding the spirited horses, that tried all the strength of her arms
and wrists, and required an undivided attention.
However, the drive was soon over, and then she had before her the
disagreeable necessity of facing her aunt and Helen. Brave as she was,
she was assailed by a cowardly impulse to avoid meeting them. What if
she went home with Mrs. Singleton, and for the evening at least did not
meet them? But what would be gained by that, except delay? She knew
that unless she wished to leave it in Rathborne's power to make what
statement he chose, she _must_ go to them with her own statement; and,
this being so, delay would serve no end except to give the impression
of heartless indifference. No, there was nothing for it but to meet at
once what had to be met sooner or later; so when the Singleton carriage
drew up at her aunt's gate, she exchanged a gay farewell with her
companions, and with a heavy heart and reluctant step took her way to
the house.
How different from its usual aspect that house looked, as she drew
near it! Usually at this hour bright lights shone from the windows;
there would be snatches of music, sounds of voices and laughter; if the
moon were shining as to-night, a gay party would be assembled on the
veranda. Now it was still and quiet; the lights in the drawing-room
were turned low; the broad, open hall looked deserted. Only one figure
emerged from the shadow of the vines on the veranda into the full
moonlight as she approached. It was a small figure--that of Harry
Dalton.
"Why, Harry!" exclaimed Marion, with an effort to speak as usual, "are
you all alone? Where is Helen?"
"Helen has gone upstairs; she has a headache," answered Harry. "But
mamma is in the sitting-room, and wants to see you."
"Very well," said Marion. She began to unbutton her gloves, as some
outward relief to her inward agitation, and without pausing, walked
into the house. Since the interview must take place, the sooner it was
over the better--so she said to herself as she entered the room where
her aunt awaited her.
Mrs. Dalton was sitting by a table on which stood a shaded lamp, and,
with a book open before her, seemed to be reading; but her effort to
fix her mind on the page had not met with much success. She had, in
reality, been waiting for the sound of her niece's step; and when she
heard her coming, she was conscious of as much shrinking from the
interview as Marion felt. "I must be reasonable," she said to herself;
and then, pushing back her volume, she looked up as the girl entered.
It was characteristic of Marion that she spoke first. "I am sorry to
hear that Helen is not well, aunt," she said. "Has she been at home
long?"
"About half an hour," answered Mrs. Dalton. "She has gone to her room;
she asked that she might be left alone. That is so unlike Helen, that
I am sure something very serious has occurred. And I judge from a few
words which Frank said, that you know what it is, Marion."
"What did Mr. Frank Morley say?" inquired Marion, sitting down. The
introduction of his name roused in her an immediate sense of defiance.
After all, what right had they to suppose that what had happened was
any fault of hers?
"He said that Helen had overheard something which passed between Paul
Rathborne and yourself," answered Mrs. Dalton; "and that afterward she
had asked him to bring her home alone. He told me this in reply to my
questions. Helen said nothing; but I feel that I ought to know how
matters stand, so I ask you what did she overhear?"
"She overheard me tell Mr. Rathborne that I rejected and despised the
love that he ventured to offer me," replied Marion, speaking in her
clearest and most distinct tone.
A quick contraction of the brow showed how much the answer pained, if
it did not surprise, Mrs. Dalton. "My poor child!" she said, as if
to herself. Then she looked at Marion with something like a flash in
her usually gentle eyes. "And do you hold yourself guiltless in this
matter?" she asked. "If Paul Rathborne is a traitor to Helen--as he
surely is,--have not you encouraged his admiration? Does not your
conscience tell you that you have sacrificed her happiness for the
gratification of your vanity?"
"No," replied Marion; "my conscience tells me nothing of the kind. How
could I prevent Mr. Rathborne's folly? But, of course, I expected to be
blamed for it," she added, bitterly. "That is the justice of the world."
"God forgive me if I am unjust!" said Mrs. Dalton. "I did not mean to
be. But, Marion, this is not altogether a surprise to me. I have seen
his admiration for you, and I have seen--I could not help seeing--that
you did not discourage it."
"Why should I have discouraged it?" asked Marion. "I saw no harm in
it. I could not imagine that because he found some things to like--to
admire, if you will--in me, he would become a traitor to Helen. It is
asking too much to demand that one turn one's back on a man because he
is a shade more than civil."
Mrs. Dalton shook her head. "Those are merely words," she said. "They
do not deceive yourself any more than they deceive me. You know that
you have used this man's admiration as fuel for your vanity, and that
so cautious and so selfish a man would never have acted as he has
done if he had not felt himself encouraged. Do not misunderstand me,"
she added, more hastily. "For Helen's sake I am not sorry that this
has happened. It is better for her, even at the cost of great present
suffering, that her eyes should be opened to his true character. But
you, Marion--how can you forgive yourself for the part you have played?
And what is to become of you if you do not check the vanity which has
led you to betray the trust and wring the heart of your best friend?"
The quiet, penetrating words--gentle although so grave--seemed to
Marion at that moment like a sentence from which there was no appeal.
Her conscience echoed it, her eyes fell, for an instant it looked as if
she had nothing to reply. But she rallied quickly.
"I am sorry if you think I have wilfully done anything to pain Helen,"
she said, coldly. "It does not strike me that I could have averted
this, unless I had been gifted with a foreknowledge which I do not
possess. I could never have imagined that Mr. Rathborne would be so
false with regard to Helen, and so presumptuous with regard to _me_."
The haughtiness of the last words was not lost on the ear of the
listener, who looked at the beautiful, scornful face with a mingling of
pity and indignation.
"You expected," she said, "to encourage a man's admiration up to a
certain point, and yet to restrain his presumption? A little more
knowledge of human nature would have told you that was impossible; a
little more feeling would have kept you from desiring it." She paused
a moment, then went on, with the same restrained gravity: "I am sorry
if I seem to you harsh, but nothing in this affair is worse to me than
the revelation it makes of your character. I am grieved by Helen's
suffering, and shocked by Paul Rathborne's treachery; but for the first
I have the comfort that it may in the end spare her worse suffering,
and for the second I feel that it is not a surprise--that I never
wholly trusted his sincerity. But _you_, Marion--what can I think of
you, who, without any stronger feeling than vanity to lead you on, have
trifled with your own sense of honor, as well as with the deepest
feelings of others? What will your future be if you do not change--if
you do not try to think less of unworthy objects and more of worthy
ones--less of gaining admiration and more of keeping your conscience
clear and your heart clean?"
"What will my future be!" repeated Marion. She rose as she spoke, and
answered, proudly: "That concerns myself alone. I have no fear of it; I
feel that I can make it what I will, and I shall certainly not will to
make it anything unworthy. But it need not trouble you in the least. I
am sorry that my coming here should have brought any trouble on Helen.
The only amend I can make is to go away at once, and that I will do."
"No," said Mrs. Dalton, quickly; "that can not mend matters now, and
would only throw a very serious reflection upon you when it is known
that Helen's engagement is at an end. I cannot consent to it."
"But Helen's engagement might not be at an end if I went away,"
responded Marion.
"You do not know Helen yet," said Mrs. Dalton, quietly. "I have not
spoken to her on the subject, but I am certain what her decision will
be."
Marion herself was by no means certain that Mrs. Dalton's judgment was
correct. She thought Helen weak and yielding to the last degree, and
believed that very little entreaty would be requisite on Rathborne's
part to induce her to forgive him. "It will be only necessary for him
to throw all the blame on me," she thought, with a bitter smile, as she
went to her chamber. Nevertheless, it was not a very tranquil night
that she passed. Whatever change the future might bring, she knew
that Helen was suffering now--suffering the keen pangs which a loving,
trusting heart feels when its love and trust have been betrayed. "It is
hard on her, she is so good, so kind, so incapable herself of betraying
any one!" thought the girl, whose conscience was still in a very
dormant state, but whose sense of pity was touched. "How sorry Claire
would be if she knew!" And then came the reflection, "What would Claire
think of me?" followed by the quick reply, "She would be as unjust as
the rest, and call it my fault, no doubt."
The thought of Claire's judgment, however, was another sting added to
those which already disturbed her; and it was not strange that she
tossed on her pillow during the better part of the night, only falling
asleep toward morning. As is usually the case after a wakeful night,
her sleep was heavy, so that the first sound that roused her was the
breakfast bell. She opened her eyes with a start, and to her surprise
saw Helen standing beside her.
The memory of all that had happened flashed like lightning into her
mind; and, unable to reconcile that memory with this appearance, she
could only gasp, "Helen!--what are you doing here?"
"I knocked at the door, but you did not answer, so I came in," Helen
responded, simply. "It is late, else I should not have disturbed you.
But I wanted to speak to you before you went down."
"Yes," said Marion. She sat up in bed, with white draperies all about
her, and looked at her cousin. She expected a demand for explanation,
perhaps reproaches, but she did not expect what came.
"I only want to tell you," said Helen, with the same quiet simplicity,
"that I have no reason to blame you for--what occurred yesterday. It
was not your fault: you could not have helped it. I don't know that any
one is to blame very much," she added, with a sigh; "but I felt that I
ought to tell you that I do not blame _you_ at all."
"Helen!" cried Marion. All her proud self-control suddenly gave way,
and she burst into tears. The generosity which underlay the erring
surface of her nature was touched to the quick, and her conscience
spoke as it had never spoken before. "Helen, you are too good," she
said. "You judge me too kindly. I do not feel myself that I am not to
blame. On the contrary, I have no doubt my aunt is perfectly right, and
that I am very much to blame. I let my vanity and my love of admiration
carry me too far, but never with the intention of injuring you or
betraying your trust--never!"
"I am sure of that," said Helen, gently. She laid her hand on the bent
head of the other. It startled her to see Marion display such feeling
and such humility as this. "Mamma was thinking of me," she went on;
"else she would not have blamed you; for how could you help being more
attractive than I am? If I was unreasonable enough to think for a
little time last night that you were to blame, I know better now. God
has given me strength to look at things more calmly. I can even see
that _he_ may not be greatly in fault. No doubt he thought he loved
me--until he saw you."
"Helen, he is not worthy of you!" cried Marion, passionately. "He loves
no one but himself."
Helen shook her head. "Surely he loves you," she said; "else why
should he tell you so? But we need not discuss this. Will you come down
when you are ready?"
"Oh! yes," said Marion, with an effort; "I will be down very soon."
She rose as Helen left the room, and dressed very hastily, a prey
the while to many conflicting emotions. Relief was mingled with
self-reproach, and admiration of Helen's generosity with scorn of her
weakness. "For, of course, her excuses for him mean that she will
forgive him!" she thought. "I have heard that women--most women--are
fools in just that way, and Helen is exactly the kind of woman to be
guilty of that folly. The miserable dastard!"--she remembered his
threat to herself--"I wish I could punish him as he deserves for his
treachery and presumption!"
It did not occur to her to ask whether or not _she_ deserved any
punishment for the share she confessed to having borne in the
treachery. Had the idea been suggested to her, she would have said that
her share was infinitesimal compared with his, and that she had already
been punished by the insolence she had drawn upon herself.