It was at first almost impossible for Marion to realize that the desire
of her life was gratified in a manner so strange and so unexpected.
She seemed to be existing in a dream, which would presently dissolve
away after the manner of all dreams, and leave her in her old state of
poverty and longing. That Brian Earle had lost his fortune, and that
the old man now dead had not cared sufficiently for any of his other
heirs to leave it to them,--that this fortune was hers--hers absolutely
and alone,--was something that struck her as too wonderful, and, in a
certain sense, too awful, to be true. There flashed across her mind a
recollection of "being crushed beneath the weight of a granted prayer."
Was she to be crushed beneath the weight of this prayer of hers so
singularly granted?
Certainly she felt herself in an isolation which was chilling to the
heart. The man she loved was gone--had parted from her in contempt;
and she felt sharply how much that contempt would be increased when he
heard that she possessed his inheritance. As for friends, where would
she turn to find them? For her uncle and his family she had never
cared; Helen was estranged--if not in heart, at least in fact; for
intercourse between them could not now be pleasant to either; and it
seemed a desecration of the name of friend to apply the term to Mrs.
Singleton. Yet it was to Mrs. Singleton, after all, that she had to
turn for social support and countenance at this crisis of her fortunes.
And it was the good sense and philosophy of Mr. Singleton which induced
his wife to see that she would gain nothing by following her declared
intention of having nothing more to do with the heiress.
"People will only think that you are disappointed and envious," he
said; "and since the world never, under any circumstances, turns its
back on a rising sun, you will merely put yourself in a foolish and
awkward position. The thing to do is, as I have said before, to make
the best of a bad matter. And for us it might be a great deal worse.
Of course we have missed the fortune, but I don't realty think we ever
had a chance of it; and we are not paupers, you know. Now, it will be
a graceful thing for you to take up this girl. She will appreciate it,
I think, and it will prevent any undesirable gossip about her or about
us."
"All that may be very true, Tom," Mrs. Singleton replied. "But I do not
see how I _can_ force myself to have anything more to do with her. I so
despise her duplicity!"
"Duplicity is a thing to be despised," observed Mr. Singleton, quietly;
"but I am not sure that Miss Lynde has been guilty of it. Let us give
her the benefit of a doubt. If, as you believe, she schemed for this
result, she most certainly did not expect it. I never saw any one show
greater surprise than she did when she heard the news."
"She is a consummate actress. She might have affected that."
"Not even the most consummate actress could have affected what she
exhibited. Her surprise amounted to incredulity. But, whether you
believe this or not, believe that it will be best for you not to throw
her off. There is nothing to be gained by that, and there may be a good
deal to lose."
This view of the matter, together with her husband's unusual
seriousness, impressed Mrs. Singleton so much that she finally
consented to form an alliance, for purposes of mutual convenience,
with Marion. The latter received her overtures with a certain sense
of gratitude. She knew that they were interested, but she also knew
that without Mrs. Singleton she would be placed in a very difficult
position--would, in fact, appear in the eyes of the world as an
adventuress who had secured a fortune at the expense of the rightful
heirs. The countenance of those heirs was, therefore, very essential to
her.
But this hollow compact for mutual convenience--how different was
it from associations in which affection or sympathy forms the tie!
Marion had fancied herself made in a mould strong enough to disregard
such feelings, but she now found her mistake. Her heart ached for the
affections she had lost--for Brian's strong love, and Helen's gentle
tenderness. She had sacrificed both, and by sacrificing them won the
fortune for which she had longed; but already she began to realize that
she had lost in the exchange more than she had gained. Already the
shining gold which had dazzled her was transforming itself into the dry
and withered leaves of the fairy legend.
Her plans were formed to leave Scarborough. The associations of the
place were hateful to her, and it was decided that she should go with
Mrs. Singleton to the home of the latter, and then form arrangements
for her mode of life. But, since she was still a minor, these
plans were subjected to her uncle's modifications, and his consent
was necessary for them. This caused a delay which detained her in
Scarborough for some time, and brought to her knowledge a fact which
was destined to influence her future.
This was the fact that Rathborne in his threat of enmity had uttered
no idle words. A few days after the contents of the will had become
known, while public interest respecting it was at its height, he met
Tom Singleton and said a few significant words:--
"So Miss Lynde has won the fortune from you all! That is rather hard,
isn't it?"
Mr. Singleton shrugged his shoulders. "Everyone knew that my uncle was
a man of caprices. His will was certain to be a surprise, in one way or
another; and for myself, I have no right to complain. He remembered me
handsomely."
"And is there no intention of contesting the will on the part of the
heirs?"
"I hardly think so. Brian Earle and myself are the people most nearly
concerned, and we do not think of it."
"You are sure about Earle?"
"Perfectly sure," said Mr. Singleton. "Why should a man go into a
lawsuit to gain what he might have had for a word?"
"There might be several reasons," returned Rathborne. "I can imagine
one of great strength. But if you do not think of contesting the will,
another heir may come forward to do it."
"No other heir would have a chance. If the will were set aside, Earle
and myself would inherit."
"Not if the man's son should chance to be living."
Singleton opened his eyes. "But the son is dead," he replied.
"Is he?" said Rathborne, dryly. "Who knows it?--who can prove it? But,
of course, I spoke only of a probability."
He moved away then, while his companion looked after him with rather a
blank and puzzled expression. "Now, what on earth can be known about
it?" he thought. "And what does he mean? Of course there never has been
any proof of George's death, that I know of; and if he _should_ be
living--Miss Lynde might look out for storms then. But nothing could
be more improbable. My uncle evidently did not think it a matter to be
even considered. _He_ must have had some certainty about it."
Nevertheless, he mentioned to his wife what Rathborne had said, and
she with malicious intent repeated it to Marion. "It is the first
suggestion that has been made about George," she observed. "But if he
should chance to be living, I am afraid you would lose everything."
"How could that be," said the young girl, "when he is not mentioned in
the will?"
"Because, of course, he would contest it on the ground that his father
believed him dead when he made it, and also that a man has no right to
disinherit his son in favor of a stranger. I hope it may never come to
such a contest, for many disagreeable things would be said about you."
"It would certainly never come to it, as far as I am concerned,"
replied Marion, haughtily. "For if Mr. George Singleton appeared, I
should yield his inheritance to him without any contest at all."
"Would you indeed?" asked Mrs. Singleton. She looked at her for a
moment with her head on one side, as if contemplating the possibility
of what it might mean for herself. "I don't think there is the least
danger that he will appear," she said presently; "and I had really
rather you had it than he. I always detested George."
"Thanks for the implied compliment," said Marion, smiling faintly.
She said no more on the subject, but, naturally enough, she thought
much. It was a new and startling suggestion, and seemed to derive added
force from the fact that Rathborne had made it. For she had never lost
the sense of his hostile influence--of the realization that she had
made an enemy of one who had the strength as well as the will to be
dangerous. And now she felt sure that if George Singleton were on the
earth this man would find him. "That is what he intends to do," she
said to herself; "and this is his way of letting me know it--of making
me understand that I hold my fortune on an uncertain tenure. Well, let
him do his worst. If I lose the fortune, nothing will be left me at
all; and that, no doubt, is what I deserve."
This was a new conclusion for Marion, and showed how far she had
already traveled on the road of self-knowledge. Even now she began to
ask herself what there was which the money she had so eagerly desired
could purchase for her of enduring interest? Now that everything
was within her reach, she felt that she hardly cared to stretch out
her hands to grasp any object of which she had dreamed. Admiration,
pleasure, power,--all seemed to her like the toys which a sick child
regards with eyes of indifference. Was it the weakening of her heart or
the rousing of her soul which made them seem of so small account? She
did not ask herself; she only felt that Brian Earle's influence had for
a time lifted her into a region where she had breathed a higher air,
and gained a knowledge of ideals which made her own now seem false,
petty and unsatisfying.
Would these ideals have attracted Marion had they been presented by
another person? That is difficult to say. Her nature had in it much
essential nobleness--Earle had been right in thinking it more warped
than really wrong,--and it might have responded in some degree to any
influence of the kind. But surely it is not without grave reason that
we are bidden to keep the heart with all diligence, since "out of it
are the issues of life." It had been necessary that Marion's heart
should be roused out of its cold indifference to all affection, before
she could grasp the meaning of the higher things of life--those things
which have their root and their end in eternity.
It was one evening about this time that she chanced to be driving
late through the streets of Scarborough, and saw the Catholic church
open and several persons entering. A sudden impulse made her bid the
coachman stop. She was alone, having just left Mrs. Singleton at the
house of a friend; and she felt that before leaving Scarborough
finally--as it was her intention to do in a few days--she would like
to enter once more the sanctuary where she had felt herself drawn very
near to God. Since then the world had rushed in and overwhelmed her,
and she had no longer any intention of embracing the true faith. But
an attraction which could not be resisted drew her just now within the
threshold of the door to which Earle had last led her.
She descended from her carriage, to the astonishment of a few loiterers
around the church gate, and in the rich twilight walked up the path
which led to the door. Music came from within, and as she pushed it
open a vision of celestial yet familiar brightness burst on her. The
altar was a mass of lights and flowers, and in the midst rose the
ostensorium on its golden throne. The priest, with his attendants,
knelt motionless before it, while from the organ-loft came the strains
of the "_O Salutaris Hostia_." Marion had been at the convent too long
not to know all that it meant. She knelt at once, as a Catholic might
have done; and indeed in her mind at that moment there was no sense of
doubt. From the uplifted Presence on the altar faith seemed suddenly
infused into her soul. Not only did all thought of questioning leave
her, but all memory of ever having questioned. She knelt like a child,
simply, humbly, involuntarily; and, with the same confidence as those
around her, breathed a petition for the things of which she had begun
to feel herself in need--for light on a path which was by no means
clear, and for some better guide than her own erring will.
After Benediction she was one of the first to leave the church, with
a sense of peace which astonished her. "Why do I feel differently now
from what I did when I entered?" she said to herself as she drove
home in the soft dusk. "What power has touched me, and given me the
first repose of spirit that I have known in a long time? It is surely
strange, and impossible not to believe."
But there it ended. Not yet had come the time when she would feel the
necessity of taking some practical step toward making this all-powerful
help her own; not yet had the proud spirit bent itself to acknowledging
its own inability to order its life. The very reason which not long
before had drawn her toward the Church--the fact that Earle belonged
to it--now repelled as strongly as it had attracted. The hour had not
yet struck when such earthly considerations would fall away before the
urgent demand of the soul, the need of the weak and the human for the
strong and the eternal.
"The cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind;"
and not all of Marion's cedars had fallen yet.
The next day a surprise, which was yet not altogether a surprise,
awaited her. She was quietly sitting in the room which had been
Mr. Singleton's--that small, pretty apartment behind the large
drawing-room, which still seemed full of the suggestion of his
presence,--when she heard a visitor ushered into the adjoining room,
and a minute later a servant appeared bringing her a card. She took it
and read the name of Paul Rathborne.
It was a shock rather than an astonishment. She said to herself that
she had looked for this: she had known that he would come as the
bearer of ill news, if ill news were to be brought to her. For a moment
she remained silent looking at the bit of pasteboard which said so
much. Should she refuse to see him, should she deny him the pleasure
of triumphing over her, and force him to send through another channel
whatever news he brought? She was strongly tempted to this, but pride
in the first place--the pride of not wishing to let him imagine that
he had any power to move her--rejected the idea; and in the second
place she felt that she must know at once whatever he had to tell.
If she refused to see him, he would be capable of making her suffer
suspense for an indefinite length of time. Steadying her voice to quiet
indifference, therefore, she said to the servant: "Show Mr. Rathborne
in here."
A minute later the curtains between the two rooms were drawn back,
and Rathborne entered. She rose and bowed slightly, looking more
princess-like than ever in her beauty and stateliness, and in the midst
of the luxury which surrounded her. No detail of her appearance or
her manner was lost upon the man who had come with his heart full of
bitterness toward her. And if an additional touch to this bitterness
had been needed, her haughtiness, and her air of calmly possessing a
place where she belonged, would have given it. The recollection of some
words of his was fresh in the minds of both as they looked at each
other. "I promise you that in the hour when your schemes are nearest
success, you will find them defeated by me." These had been his last
words to her. Was he come now to tell her that they were fulfilled?
This was the thought in her mind, but there was no sign of it in her
manner or her glance. She stood, composedly waiting for him to explain
the object of his visit; and it was he who had to speak first.
"I have ventured to ask the honor of this interview, Miss Lynde," he
said--and, under its outward respect, she keenly felt the mockery of
his tone,--"in order to make a communication of importance to you. It
is true, I might have made it to your lawyer, but I thought it best
that I should be myself the bearer of such news to you."
"I fully appreciate your motives," she replied, in her clear,
flute-like tones. "Pray spare yourself and me any apologies, and let me
know what possible news of importance can have fallen to you to bring
me."
As she understood the underlying mockery in his voice, so he heard and
felt the scorn of hers. Her clear, brilliant glance said to him: "I
know that you have come here because you hope to humble me, but I shall
only show you how despicable I consider you." It stung him as she had
always had the faculty of stinging him, and roused his determination to
make his tidings as bitter to her as possible.
"The news which I bring you," he said, "is most important to your
interest, since it is the intelligence that I am directed to bring suit
at once to set aside Mr. Singleton's will made in your favor, in order
that the estate may devolve to the natural heir."
"Indeed!" she said, quietly, with admirable self-control. "And may I
beg to know who is the natural heir who proposes to enter into this
contest?"
"An heir against whose claim you will find it impossible to fight,"
he answered, with a ring of triumph in his voice;--"one who has been
supposed to be dead, but who has been roused, by the news that his
inheritance has been alienated from him, to prove that he is living. In
other words, my client is Mr. Singleton's only son, George Singleton."