A very gratified man was Mr. Singleton when he heard how matters stood
between Marion and his nephew. Indeed, with regard to the latter, his
feeling was chiefly one of exultation. "Now I have you!" he said to
himself; and it was with difficulty that he refrained from uttering
this sentiment when Earle announced the fact of his engagement. What he
did say was:--
"I am delighted, my dear boy--delighted! You could not have pleased me
better. Miss Lynde is a girl to do credit to any man's taste, and to
any position to which she may be raised. Her family is unexceptionable;
and as for fortune--well, you have no need to think of that."
Brian smiled. "I have not thought of it," he said; "but I fear she may
think a little of the fact that I have not much to offer her. To become
the wife of a struggling artist is not a very brilliant prospect for
one of her ambition."
Mr. Singleton frowned. So, after all, the thing had not settled itself,
but was to be fought over again! "You must surely be jesting when you
speak of such a prospect for her," he observed. "You must feel that
marriage brings responsibility with it; and that, since the future of
this charming girl is bound up with your own, you can no longer afford
to indulge in caprices."
"I do not think that I have ever indulged in caprices," replied Earle.
"In settling my plan of life, I have followed what I believe to be
right, as well as what I believed to be best. And I have no intention
of changing it now. Marion understands that in accepting me, she also
accepts my life. I am sure of that."
"_I_ am by no means sure of it," thought Mr. Singleton; but he was wise
enough to say no more, and bide his time to speak to Marion.
"My dear," he said to her, as soon as they were alone together, "you
know that the arrangement between Brian and yourself meets with my
warmest approval. But it will be of very little good to me personally,
unless you mean to use your influence--for you can no longer say that
you possess none--to induce him to yield to my wishes. Unless he does
so, he can expect nothing from me in the future. And that I should
regret for your sake now as well as his."
"You are very kind," said Marion, who understood all that was implied
in this. "Be certain that if he does not yield to your wishes, it will
not be my fault. I shall use all the influence I possess to induce him
to do so."
"In that case I have no fear," said the old man, gallantly. "Who could
resist you?"
A little while before Marion would have echoed this with a profound
conviction of her own irresistible power; but now, though she did not
dissent from it, she had a lurking fear that Brian Earle might not
prove so elastic in her hands as his uncle hoped. As yet, by tacit
consent, the subject of their future life had been avoided; but she
knew that the time would come when it must be discussed, and she said
to herself with passionate resolution that he should not throw away the
fortune which was offered him, if it were in her power to prevent it.
Had this resolution needed a spur, Mrs. Singleton's congratulations
would have given it. "I hope that you will be very happy," she said;
"and I think it is very good for me to hope it, for you step into my
place. Brian will not go abroad _now_."
"We have not settled that as yet," replied Marion, who detected a
questioning tone in the last assertion.
"I think that, in your place, I should settle it as soon as possible,"
said Mrs. Singleton. "It will be pleasanter for all parties. Although,
of course, Brian's decision is a foregone conclusion."
"You not only hope, you believe the contrary," thought Marion; "but I
will show you that you are mistaken."
Meanwhile Earle, unconscious of the struggle before him, was thinking
how much he had misjudged Marion in believing her so worldly, since,
knowing his definite decision with regard to his life, she was yet
willing to share that life. The declaration which he had made was
entirely unpremeditated; but, once made, he did not regret it. How
indeed was it possible to regret that which brought immediately so much
happiness to himself and to Marion? And it was too much to expect,
perhaps, that he should ask whether or not this happiness rested on a
very substantial basis--whether there were not elements in it certain
to produce discord as time went on. All that was hard, haughty and
worldly in Marion seemed, for the time being, to have disappeared.
Helen herself could hardly have seemed more gentle and tender to the
man she loved.
On the Sunday following their betrothal, he asked her if she would
go with him to church, and she readily assented. "I always liked
Catholicity," she said, as they took their way thither; "and I always
felt that if there was truth in any religion, it was in that. All the
others are but poor shams and imitations of it, and I have had an
instinctive scorn of them ever since I knew anything of the old faith.
I am glad, therefore, that you are a Catholic."
"Since I am not an Agnostic," he said, laughing. "You would have had a
higher opinion of my intellectual strength if I had avowed myself that,
you know."
She laughed too. "That was before I understood you," she said; "and
before I understood the grounds you had for your faith. But now I know
that you could be only what you are."
"And when," he asked, in a tone suddenly grown grave and earnest, "will
you also be that?"
"How can I tell?" she replied. "Should not faith be something more than
a mere matter of intellectual conviction?"
"Faith is a gift of God," he said. "If you are willing to receive it,
it will not be denied to you."
"I am willing now," she observed. "Always, heretofore, I have shrunk
from it. I have felt the fascination of Catholicity, but I have dreaded
what it would demand from me. But now I dread no longer. I am willing
to be what you are."
He smiled slightly, and, as they had reached the church by this time,
extended his hand to lead her over the threshold. Then withdrawing it,
"There!" he said; "I have done my part--I have brought you within the
door. God must do the rest."
It seemed to Marion, as she knelt by him during Mass, as if God were
doing this. Her heart opened to the influences around her as it had
never opened before. The Holy Sacrifice had a meaning for her which it
had never, up to this time, possessed; she forgot the plainness and
bareness of the chapel, the unfashionable appearance of the people, in
her consciousness of the Divine Reality before her on the altar. And
when the priest, addressing the people at the end of Mass, spoke in
plain and forcible language of the truths of faith, her mind replied by
an assenting _Credo_.
But as he turned to preach, Father Byrne received a shock of unpleasant
surprise in perceiving Marion's face by Brian Earle's side. He had
not seen or heard of her since the occurrences which had ended
Helen's engagement. He had not been aware that she still remained in
Scarborough after her aunt's departure; but he had met Earle, and
liked the young man so much that this unexpected appearance beside him
of the girl who had destroyed her cousin's happiness, seemed to him
a conjunction that boded no good. The sight distracted him so much
that he hesitated over the opening words of his sermon. The hesitation
was only momentary: he took a firm grasp of his subject, and began;
but whenever his glance fell on those two faces in one of the front
pews, he said to himself, "Poor young man!" and asked himself if,
knowing what he did, he should offer a warning to the object of his
commiseration.
After Mass, giving the question some thought, he decided that if the
opportunity for it arose, he would speak to Earle on the subject; but
that he would take no steps to make an opportunity, since it might
have been an accidental association, meaning little or nothing. And so
the matter might have passed without result, had not Earle presented
himself that afternoon at the pastoral residence. He had two motives
for the visit--one was to see Father Byrne, with whom he had been most
pleasantly impressed; the other, to ask for some book of instruction
to put into Marion's hands. The good Father was a little disturbed by
the appearance of his visitor: it seemed he was to be forced to deliver
his warning--for he had no intention of receding from his agreement
with his conscience. Therefore, after they had talked for some time on
various subjects, and a slight pause occurred, he was on the point of
beginning, when Earle anticipated him by speaking:--
"I must not weary you by a long visit, Father," he said, "knowing that
Sunday is a day which makes many demands upon you. I have come not only
for the pleasure of seeing you this afternoon, but to ask your advice
on a matter of importance. I want a book which sets forth Catholic
doctrine in a clear and attractive manner, for one disposed toward the
Church. What work will best answer my purpose?"
Father Byrne named a work familiar to most Catholics, and of wide
circulation; but Earle shook his head. "That will not do at all. I
want something of an intellectual character, and with the charm of
literary excellence. Else it would have no effect on the person for
whom I intend it."
"Perhaps if you told me something about the person," suggested the
priest, "I could judge better what would be suitable."
"I want the book," Earle answered, "for a young lady of much more than
ordinary intelligence, who has no Protestant prejudices to overcome,
and who, I think, only needs to be instructed to induce her to embrace
the Catholic faith."
Father Byrne's face changed at the words "a young lady." "Surely," he
said, after an instant's hesitation, "you do not mean the young lady
who was with you in church this morning?"
"Yes," replied Earle, surprised by the tone even more than by the
question. "I mean Miss Lynde. Do you know her?"
"I know her slightly, but I know _of_ her very well," answered the
priest, gravely. "And I regret to say that I cannot imagine a more
unpromising subject for conversion. My dear Mr. Earle, I think that
you will waste your efforts in that direction. I hope I am not
uncharitable, but I have little confidence in the sincerity of Miss
Lynde's desire to know the truth."
"Why have you no confidence?" asked Earle, shortly, almost sternly.
The other looked distressed. It was a more unpleasant task than he had
anticipated which he had set himself, but he felt bound in conscience
to go through with it.
"Because," he replied, "I know that the young lady has had ample
opportunity to learn all about the Faith if she had desired to do so.
She had been at school in a convent for some time, and she came here
with her cousin, Miss Morley, who is a devoted Catholic." He paused a
moment, then with an effort went on: "But it is not for this reason
alone that I distrust her sincerity. I chance to know that she acted
badly toward her cousin, that she was the cause of her engagement being
broken, and she behaved with great duplicity in the whole matter."
"This is a very serious charge," said Earle. He held himself well under
control, but the priest perceived that he was much moved. "Do you speak
with positive knowledge of what you assert?"
"As positive as possible, with regard to the facts," Father Byrne
answered. "Miss Morley broke her engagement because she heard the man
to whom she was engaged making love to her cousin. She generously
refrained from blaming the latter, but Mrs. Morley told me that Miss
Lynde had undoubtedly made deliberate efforts to attract her daughter's
lover. You will understand that I tell you this in confidence, and
nothing but my sincere interest in you would induce me to tell it at
all. You might readily hear it from others, however. It is, I believe,
a notorious fact in Scarborough."
Earle was silent for a minute, looking down as if in thought, with his
dark brows knitted, and his pleasant countenance overcast. The last
words made him recall various hints and allusions of Mrs. Singleton's.
They had produced little impression upon him at the time--not enough
to cause him to inquire what they meant,--but now they came back with
a force derived from what he had just heard. With sudden clearness he
recalled that Marion seemed to shrink from any mention of her cousin,
and that he had seen her change color once or twice when some man was
alluded to by Mrs. Singleton in very significant tones. Even if it
had been possible to doubt the priest, who spoke with such evident
reluctance, these things recalled by memory gave added weight to all
that he said. Presently the young man looked up, and spoke with an
effort:--
"I have no doubt you have meant kindly, Father, in speaking of this
matter; but, if you please, we will not discuss it further. To return
to the book--I see that I had better decide for myself what will be
suitable. Something of Newman's might answer, only he deals chiefly
with Anglican difficulties; or perhaps Lacordaire's great Conferences
on the Church might be best."
"That is rather a--formidable work," said the Father, hesitatingly.
"Yes," answered Earle; "but so splendid in its logic, so luminous in
its style, that whoever reads it understandingly will need no other.
But I must not detain you longer."
He rose as he spoke, shook hands with the priest--who was uncertain
whether or not to regret what he had done,--and took his departure.
Once outside he said to himself that the thing to do now was to go
directly to Marion, and learn from her the true meaning of the story
which had so deeply disturbed him. He felt loyally certain that, as he
heard it, it could not be true,--that she could never willfully have
drawn her cousin's lover from his allegiance. At least he repeated
this to himself more than once. But in his heart was a lurking doubt
which he would not acknowledge,--a lurking recollection of the distrust
he had felt toward her at first, and which lately had faded from his
mind. Well, it would depend upon what she told him now whether this
distrust were to be revived or finally banished.
It was late in the afternoon when he entered the grounds of the house
in which Mr. Singleton dwelt; and the long, golden sunshine streamed so
invitingly across emerald turf and bright flower-beds toward the green
depths of shrubbery in the old garden, that he turned his steps in that
direction, thinking it barely possible he might find Marion there,
since she was partial to a seat under an arbor covered with climbing
roses.
Some instinct must have guided his steps; for Marion _was_ there,
seated in the green shade, and so absorbed in reading that she did not
perceive his approach. He paused for a minute to admire the beautiful
picture which she made--a picture to delight an artist's eye,--asking
himself the while if what looked so fair could possibly be capable
of deceiving. It was a question that must be answered in one way or
another, and, tightening his lips a little, he came forward.
She looked up with a slight start as he drew near, and the light of
pleasure that came into her eyes was very eloquent. "So you have found
me!" she said. "I thought that you might. I looked for you when I came
out, but did not see you anywhere."
"I had gone into Scarborough," he answered. "I went to see"--he stopped
before saying "Father Byrne," with a sudden thought that it might not
be well for her to connect the priest with the information of which he
must presently speak--"to see a friend," he continued. "I wanted to
borrow a book. What have you there?"
She held it out, smiling. "Helen gave it to me long ago," she said,
"but I never looked at it until to-day."
Earle found that it was a translation of the admirable French
"Catechism of Perseverance," which is one of the best compendiums of
Catholic doctrine. "After all," he said, "I do not know that I can do
better than this, although I was thinking of a book of another kind for
you,--a book that would rouse your interest as well as instruct you."
"I think I should prefer your choice," she said. "Helen had the best
intentions, but she forgot that what suited her would not be likely to
suit me."
This repetition of Helen's name brought his attention back from the
book to the subject it had replaced in his mind. "Helen!" he repeated.
"You mean your cousin, Miss Morley?"
"Yes. You have heard me speak of her. She is a Catholic. It was with
her that I came to Scarborough."
"And why has she gone away and left you?"
Something in the tone rather than in the words caused Marion to color
with a quick sense of apprehension. "My aunt took her away for change
of air and scene. They are wealthy, and can go where they like. I could
not go with them, and so Mrs. Singleton kindly asked me to stay with
her. That is very simple, is it not?"
"Very," he answered. He looked down, and turned absently the leaves of
the Catechism. "But, since you were your cousin's guest, it seems to me
it would have been simpler if she had asked you to go with her."
"There were reasons why she did not," said Marion. She hesitated a
moment, and then an impulse of candor came to her,--a quick instinct
that Earle must hear from herself the story which he had perhaps
already heard from others. "I will tell you what they were," she
continued. "It is a matter which it is disagreeable to me to recall,
but I should like to tell you about it."
Then she told him. There is everything, as we know, in the point
of view from which a picture is regarded, or a story is told; so
it was not surprising that, as he listened, Earle felt a sense of
infinite relief. If this were all, she was not indeed altogether
free from blame--for she acknowledged that she had taken pleasure in
the perception of Rathborne's admiration,--but certainly she did not
deserve that charge of duplicity which the priest had made. It was an
unfortunate affair; but, feeling the power which she exercised over
himself, how could he wonder that another man had felt and yielded to
it?
So, for the time at least, all his doubt was dissipated, and Marion,
satisfied with this result, deferred the decisive struggle yet to come.