Earle smiled. "The answer to that is contained in what I remarked a
moment ago," he said. "I wanted _truth itself_, not my own or anybody's
else views or fancies concerning it."
Marion looked at him with a gravity on her face which gave it a new
character altogether. "And do you really think that you found this
absolute truth in the Catholic faith?" she asked.
"I do not think so--I _know_ it," he answered. "It is there or nowhere.
I satisfied myself of that."
"But how did you come to care enough about it to think of satisfying
yourself?" she persisted. "That is what puzzles me most. The Catholic
faith may be true--I can readily believe it is,--but how did you, a
young man with the world all before you, ever come to care whether it
were true or not?"
He regarded her silently for a moment before replying. It seemed as if
he found it difficult to answer such words as these. At length he said:
"Is there any special reason why a young man, even if it were true that
he had all the world before him--and it is true in a very limited sense
of me,--should not think occasionally of the most important subject in
the world, and should not desire to think rightly?"
"Of course there is no reason why he should not," she replied. "Only
it seems unnatural. One fancies him thinking of other things. In his
place, _I_ should think of other things."
"May I ask what they would be?"
"I am sure you can hardly need to ask. Even if you have no ambition
yourself, you must realize its existence; you must know how it makes
men desire fame and power and wealth for the sake of the great
advantages they bring. In your place, I should think of making a name,
of conquering fortune, of enjoying all that the world offers."
"Well," he said, after a short pause--during which he had gone on with
the rapid, practiced strokes of his pencil,--"all that is natural
enough, and there is no harm in it unless one wished to enjoy some of
the unlawful things which the world offers. But why should one not do
all this--make a name and conquer fortune--and still give some thought
to the great question of one's final end and destiny?"
She made a slight gesture of impatience. "You know very well," she
said, "that, as a matter of fact, an ambitious man has no time for
considering such questions."
"That depends entirely upon the man. You should not make your
assertions so sweeping. In these days, at least, no man of thought--no
man who is at all interested in intellectual questions--can ignore the
subject of religion. Let me illustrate my meaning. Would you have been
surprised to learn that I were an Agnostic or a Positivist?"
"No," she replied, somewhat reluctantly. "That would have been
different."
"Only different because they are fashionable creeds of the hour, and it
is considered a proof of intellectual strength to stultify reason, and,
in the face of the accumulated proofs of ages, to declare that man can
know nothing of his origin or his end. But when, on the contrary, one
accepts a logical and luminous system of thought, a revelation which
offers an explanation of the mystery of being entirely consistent with
reason, you think that very remarkable! Forgive me, Miss Lynde, if I
say that I find your opinion quite as remarkable as you can find my
faith."
She blushed, but answered haughtily: "That may be. It was no doubt
presumptuous of me to express any opinion on the subject. I really
don't know why I did it, except that I was so much surprised, in the
first place by the fact that you had thought of the matter, and in the
second place by the avowal which vexed your uncle."
"I am sorry to have vexed him," said Earle, quietly; "but he is too
much of a philosopher to allow it to trouble him long--indeed I have no
idea that it has troubled him at all."
She did not answer, but the expression in her eyes was one of so much
wonder that he smiled. "What is it now?" he asked. "What are you still
surprised at?"
"I hardly like to tell you," she replied. "I feel as if I had already
said too much--"
"By no means. I like frankness, of all things; especially if I may be
allowed to imitate it."
She smiled in spite of herself. "That," she said, "is certainly
as little as one could allow. Well, then, I confess that I do not
understand why you should refuse to accept the fortune which Mr.
Singleton evidently wishes so much to give you. Have you conscientious
scruples against holding wealth?"
"Not the faintest. I would accept a million, if it came to me
unfettered by conditions which would make even a million too dearly
bought."
"Such as--?"
"What my uncle asks--that I give up everything which interests me in
life, and devote myself to him as long as he lives."
"But he cannot live long. And then--"
"Then I should be a rich man. But, as it chances, I do not care about
being a rich man. Money can not buy anything which I desire. It cannot
give me the proficiency in art which must be won by long and hard
study."
"It would make that study unnecessary."
"Unnecessary!" He glanced at her with something of her own wonder,
dashed by faint scorn. "Do you think that I consider _making money_ the
end of my art? So far from that, I would starve in a garret sooner than
lower my standard for such an object. And, insensibly perhaps, I should
lower it if I had a great deal of money. No man can answer for himself.
Therefore, I have no desire to be tempted. And I repeat that money can
buy nothing which I value most."
"Do you not value power? It can buy that."
"In a very poor form. I am not sure that I should care for it in its
best form, but certainly not in that which money buys."
"Money is the lever which moves the world," she said; "and it is only
because you have never known the real want of it that you hold it so
lightly."
"I have sometimes thought that myself," he replied. "It is true that
only a starving man properly appreciates bread. I have never starved,
and it may be that I am not properly grateful for mine; but, at least,
I try neither to undervalue nor overvalue it."
"Some day," she said, "you may find an object which money would have
helped you to gain, and then you will regret the folly--forgive me if I
speak plainly--which threw away such a great power."
"I should have to change very much," he replied, "before I could care
for any object which money would help me to gain."
"There is nothing more likely than that you will change on that point.
If there is anything that life teaches, it is that there is scarcely a
single object which money will not help us to gain."
He looked at her with a curious surprise, which he did not attempt to
conceal. "Forgive _me_," he said, "if I speak too plainly; but there
is a remarkable want of harmony between your appearance and your
utterances. If one listened with closed eyes, one might fancy that a
man of fifty spoke in behalf of the god to whom he had devoted his
life. But when one looks at you--"
"You are surprised that such sentiments should come from one who ought
to be ignorant of every reality of life," she observed, coolly, as he
paused. "But I learned something about those realities at a very early
age. I know how the want of money has embittered my life; I know how it
lays on me now fetters under which I chafe; and therefore, by right of
the experience which you lack, I tell you that you will live to regret
the loss of the fortune you are throwing away."
"No man can speak with absolute certainty of the future; but, if I know
myself at all, I do not think I shall ever regret it."
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "In that case you will be an
extraordinary man," she said. "But I feel as if I should beg your
pardon for having fallen into such a personal vein of discussion."
"I do not think that the responsibility rests with you," he answered.
"But if you consider that you owe me an apology, I can point out an
immediate way to make amends. Ever since you have been standing there,
I have been longing to make a sketch of you. Will you allow me to do
so?"
"Certainly," she said, smiling; for the request flattered her vanity.
So, while she stood in the sunshine and shadow, a charming picture of
youth and grace, he sketched her, feeling with every stroke the true
artist appreciation of her beauty; and more and more surprised at
her intelligence as they talked of art and literature, of people and
events, while time flew by unheeded.
Meanwhile Mr. Singleton was certainly wroth with his favorite. The
latter's change of religion--or, to be more correct, his choice of
religion--was the last of many offenses; and the old man said to
himself that, so far as he was concerned, it should indeed be the
last. "The boy is a fool, besides being obstinate and ungrateful!"
he thought, with what he felt to be righteous indignation, and which
(knowing his own weakness in regard to Earle) he strove to encourage
and fan into enduring anger. "But I am glad I have discovered this in
time--very glad! Though he has refused so positively to do anything
that I wish, there is no telling what weakness I might have been guilty
of when it came to the point of making my will. But now I am safe. My
money shall never go into the hands of the Jesuits--that I am resolved
upon. And, of course, they would soon obtain it from Brian, who has no
appreciation whatever of its value. Yes, my mind is settled at last on
that score. He shall never inherit anything from me; but where on earth
am I to find a satisfactory legatee to take his place?"
The consideration of this question, and the difficulty of answering
it, produced in old Mr. Singleton a state of temper which made life a
burden, for the time being, to all his personal attendants. While Earle
was philosophically setting forth his views to Marion at the bottom
of the garden, the valet and the nurse were having a very hard time
in getting the fractious invalid ready for the day; and when he was
finally established in his sitting-room, he probably remembered the
soothing power of music, and asked for Miss Lynde.
Diligent search having revealed the fact that Miss Lynde was not in the
house, Mr. Singleton wanted to know if any one could tell him where
she had gone. Mrs. Singleton, being interrogated, professed utter
ignorance; but one of the maids volunteered the information that from
an upper window she had seen Miss Lynde in the garden with Mr. Earle.
That had been an hour before. "Go to the same window and see if she is
there yet," ordered Mr. Singleton when this was communicated to him.
Observation duly made, and a report brought to him that she was still
there, "Shall I send for her, sir?" inquired his servant.
"No," snapped the irate old gentleman. "What do you mean by such a
question? Why should I wish to disturb Miss Lynde? I simply desired to
satisfy myself where she was. When she comes in, let her know that I
would like to see her."
Left alone then, he opened his newspapers with a softening of the lines
about his mouth. After all, a way might be found of managing Brian. The
influence of a beautiful woman might accomplish what his own influence
had failed to do. Marion would make a capital wife for the young man.
"Just the wife he needs," thought Mr. Singleton. "A woman of ambition,
of cleverness, and of worldly knowledge quite remarkable in one so
young. No danger of _her_ under-valuing money, and the Jesuit would
be very sharp who could get it from her. Why did I not think of this
before? Of course he will fall in love with her--what man could avoid
doing so?--and, in that event, everything can be arranged. _She_ will
bring him to my terms soon enough."
These reflections had so soothing an effect upon his temper that
when Marion came in, and was told by Mrs. Singleton that _he_ (with
a significant gesture toward the apartment of the person indicated)
was in the mood of a tiger, and demanding her presence, she was most
agreeably surprised at being received with extreme kindness.
"I am told you have been asking for me. I am sorry to have been out of
the way," she said.
"I wanted to ask you to sing for me," he replied. "My nerves are in an
irritated state this morning, and I felt as if your voice might soothe
them. But I am not unreasonable enough to expect you to be always on
hand to gratify my fancies. It was well that you were out enjoying this
beautiful morning."
"I was only in the garden. You might have sent for me. I should have
been delighted to come and sing for you. Shall I do so now?"
"After a little. Sit down and let me talk to you for a few minutes.
I suppose you can imagine what it is that gave me a particularly bad
night, and has set my nerves on edge this morning?"
"I am afraid that it is worry," said Marion, sitting down near him.
"You did not like what Mr. Earle said last night."
"I certainly did not like it. The announcement he made was a great
surprise to me and a great shock. Under any circumstances, I should be
sorry for any one in whom I felt an interest to take such a step; but
you are probably aware that I have felt a peculiar interest in Brian."
"I have heard that your intentions toward him have been most kind."
"I have desired that he shall take with me the place of a son. I have
asked him to accept the duties of such a position--duties that would
not be very heavy,--and I have promised that, in return, he shall
inherit everything that is mine. Do you think that an unreasonable
proposal?"
"Very far from it," answered Marion. "I think it most reasonable and
most kind. I can not understand how he can hesitate over it."
"He does not hesitate," said Mr. Singleton, bitterly: "he refuses it.
After that I ought to be willing to let him go; but the truth of the
matter is, I have no one to take his place. He is not only my nearest
relative, but there is something about him that attaches one to him
despite one's self. My dear"--he looked wistfully, yet keenly, into the
beautiful face,--"it has occurred to me that perhaps _you_ might have
some influence over him."
"I!" exclaimed Marion. For a moment her surprise was so great that she
could say nothing more. Then, with the realization of his meaning, a
wave of color came into her face. "I have no reason to suppose that I
have the least influence with Mr. Earle," she said. "If I had, I would
gladly use it for the ends about which you are so anxious."
"I am sure of that," observed Mr. Singleton, significantly. "Well, all
I can say is that nothing would please me more than for you to acquire
such influence. If you should acquire it, and if you should consent to
use it always, I would be a very delighted old man. You understand me,
I see, so I need say no more. Now go and sing for me."