It was soon apparent that no one except Marion herself had any doubt
but that George Singleton was alive, and that it was himself and no
impostor, who was claiming his inheritance. "The whole thing is so
exactly like him!" said Mrs. Singleton. "If it were not malicious, it
would not be characteristic of George. He wants to give as much trouble
and disappoint as many people as possible."
"He must possess an amiable and attractive character," said Marion,
faintly smiling. But as she smiled she said to herself that it was very
evident the arrangement she had entered into with Mrs. Singleton could
not stand. If the latter believed that it was only a question of time
till Mr. Singleton's son should appear, what further need was there for
her to conciliate and endure the girl who would soon have no power to
return her good offices? Instinctively Marion knew that she was asking
herself this question, and that it was best it should be answered at
once.
"I have been thinking," she observed, aloud, "that since there seems so
much doubt about the result of this matter, it will not be well for me
to make any change in my life at present. Our arrangements had better
be deferred indefinitely; and meanwhile I will stay here until Mr.
Singleton arrives."
Although Mrs. Singleton possessed considerable power of self-control,
she could not prevent her face from showing the relief she felt at
these words.
"I suppose it will really be best," she said. "It would be very awkward
for us, as well as for you, if we took up your cause, and, as it were,
identified ourselves with it, and then--"
"And then I relapsed back into my original insignificance," said
Marion. "Yes, I perceive. And, believe me, I have no desire to sail for
a time under false colors, or receive any attention which would be paid
only to Mr. Singleton's heiress. Moreover, if the business ends as you
evidently expect, I should have no power to return the obligation under
which you would have placed me. We will, therefore, say no more about
our plans, and I will quietly remain here."
"But you can not remain alone, and I _must_ get back home--"
"Do not let me detain you a day," said Marion, haughtily. "I am not
rich in friends, but I can find some one to stay with me, so long as I
need a companion; and it is only a question of money."
"Oh! yes, mere companions can be found in sufficient number--people
who will be delighted to come. But you ought to have some social
protection, some proper chaperon--"
"If all were settled as we thought, that would be necessary," Marion
interposed; "but since I may, very likely, soon be deprived of the
consequence that Mr. Singleton's money gives me, and since social
protection and proper chaperonage are altogether superfluous for a girl
without fortune, I need not trouble myself about them in this short
interval of waiting."
Mrs. Singleton said no more, but she confided to her husband her
opinion that Marion had given up all hope of being able to retain the
fortune. "And it has made her dreadfully bitter," she added. "You know
she always had a very cynical way of talking for such a young girl, but
now that is more pronounced than ever. Disappointment is going very
hard with her. I am almost sorry for her, although, of course, she has
no right to the money at all."
"She has the right that its owner chose to give it to her," said
philosophical Mr. Singleton.
But, although Marion put a bold front on the matter to Mrs. Singleton,
her heart really sank at the desolateness of her position. So long as
the fortune was still hers, she could buy a companion, as she could
buy anything else; but she saw in the eyes of everyone around her the
settled conviction that the fortune would be no longer hers. And then?
Meantime, however, it was necessary to make some arrangement, since
Mrs. Singleton was eager to be gone; and, turning over in her mind
the list of her few acquaintances in Scarborough--for friends she had
none,--Marion was asking herself rather blankly to which one she could
appeal for advice and assistance in her dilemma, when a servant entered
with the announcement that a lady desired to see her.
"A lady!" she repeated. "Who is she? Did she give no name or card?"
The servant replied that the lady had given neither, but that, in his
opinion, she was a genuine visitor--not an agent for patent soap or
anything else of the kind.
"I suppose I had better see her," said Marion, reluctantly; "but she
can not be a person of any importance, or she would have sent her name."
She went down stairs, slowly, indifferently, with a sense of mental
lassitude altogether new to her, entered the drawing-room, and found
herself face to face with Helen. She uttered a cry as the sweet,
affectionate face she knew so well turned toward her, and the next
moment they were in each other's arms.
"O Marion! I am so glad that you are glad to see me!" were Helen's
first words. "I was afraid that you might not be."
"Afraid that I might not be glad to see _you_!" said Marion. "How could
that be?--what reason could I have? But, O Helen, dear Helen! how good
it is of you to be glad to see _me_!"
"I know no reason why I should not be," replied Helen. "But I feared
that there might be some disagreeable recollection--something to
make you shrink from seeing me; so I thought I would spare you the
shrinking--I would let you have the shock at once. But it is no shock,
after all. The moment I saw your eyes, I knew you were glad."
"Oh! my dear, how kind you are!" cried Marion. "Glad! What should I be
made of if I were not glad to see you--the most generous heart in all
the world! But when did you come back to Scarborough?"
"Last night; and I would not write or let you know, because I wanted to
see you myself, without any warning. And so, Marion, your great desire
is accomplished--you have become rich since I went away!"
"And am on the point of becoming poor again," said Marion, with a
smile. "Have you not heard that?"
"No: I have heard nothing--but how can that be?--how can you become
poor again, unless you lose Mr. Singleton's fortune?"
"That is just what is going to occur--at least everyone thinks so. It
is said that Mr. Singleton's son is alive, and that if he chooses to
contest the will, it can not stand."
"O Marion! how sorry I am!"--the eloquent eyes said so indeed.--"To
think that you should have obtained what you wanted so much, only to
lose it at once! That is worse than if you had never possessed it."
"And do you see no retribution in it, Helen?" asked Marion, very
gravely. "Did not you, too, want something very much--the happiness
that had been promised you all your life,--and did you not lose it
through my fault? Believe me, I have thought of this; and, thinking of
it, I can make no complaint."
"I am sorry," said Helen, while a shade fell over her face, "that you
should speak again of _that_. I do not look at it quite as you do.
Happiness ought not to be our end in life.--I am not very wise, but I
know that, because I have faith to tell me so. No doubt I thought of it
too much; but even when I felt most about losing it, I was sure that
God must know best, and I did not really desire anything which was not
according to His will. How could one be so foolish as to do that? For
it certainly would not be happiness if it did not have God's blessing
on it."
"O Helen! Helen!" exclaimed Marion. It was a cry of mingled wonder and
self-scorn. Somehow the simple words touched her more than the most
eloquent appeal of any preacher could have done. For it was Helen who
spoke,--Helen, who had just learned her wisdom in the hard school of
practical experience, and who spoke thus to the person against whom
her heart might have been most bitter. "My dear," she went on after
a minute, "you are so good that you make me ashamed. I have learned
lately--yes, even I--what you lost, and how much you must have suffered
in the loss. It was through my own fault and by my own choice that I
lost my happiness; but you were blameless as an angel, and yet you talk
like an angel about it--"
"No, no," said Helen, quickly; "only like the most ordinary Catholic.
And that not without a struggle, Marion. Don't fancy me better than I
am."
"I don't fancy: I know you to be like something angelic compared to
me," returned Marion, with a sigh. "Do you think that I ever asked
myself anything about the will of God? I never even thought of Him in
connection with my desires."
"O Marion!"
"It is true. Don't expect me to say anything else; for, with all my
faults, I was never a hypocrite, you know. I thought nothing of Him,
I asked nothing of Him, and now I have nothing to fall back upon. My
happiness, like yours, is gone--with the difference that _I_ was not
worthy of it, whereas you were saved from a man who was not worthy
of _you_. And now the money for which I was ready to do anything and
sacrifice anything is in jeopardy, and no doubt will soon be gone."
"Has it brought you satisfaction since you have had it, Marion?"
"Do not ask me!" she said, sharply. "What is there in the world that
does bring satisfaction? But when I give it up, I shall have nothing,
absolutely nothing, left."
"You will have God's providence," answered Helen, gently. "Trust
a little to that; and tell me something--all if you will--about
yourself,--about what has happened since we parted, and what your plans
for the future are."
In past time, though Marion had always loved Helen, she had rather
despised her as a counselor; but now she felt it a relief beyond the
power of words to express, to open her heart, to tell her difficulties,
even to ask advice from one of whose affection and interest she was so
secure. For had she not lately learned how weary life can be when it
holds not a single friend, not one heart on which it is possible to
rely for disinterested aid or counsel? She told the story of her brief
engagement to Brian Earle, and did not resent the condemnation which
she read in Helen's eyes. Then a harder task was before her--to speak
of Rathborne's part in the appearance of George Singleton. She touched
on this as lightly as possible, but Helen quickly seized the fact.
"And so it was Paul who found him!" she said. "I am sorry for
that,--sorry, I mean, that he should have taken such a part in what did
not concern him, from the motive which I fear actuated him."
"He took pains to leave me in no doubt whatever about his motive,"
observed Marion. "I have seen him only once, and then I bade him do his
worst--produce his client without loss of time. When he is produced,
if he is properly identified, my dream of riches will be over; for I
shall give up the estate without a contest. But I will not give it
up until I am certain that I shall not be resigning it to a false
claimant."
"You do not think that Paul Rathborne would be guilty of fraud?" said
Helen quickly, in a pained tone; for the loyal heart was slow to resign
any one for whom it had ever cherished an affection or a trust.
"You forget," said Marion, waiving the question whether or not she
believed Rathborne capable of fraud, "that this man is in South
America, and no one here has seen him. Mr. Rathborne has only
communicated with him by letters. Now, what would be easier than for
some unscrupulous man to write in George Singleton's name, if the
latter were dead? Such things are of common occurrence. But it would be
difficult to personate him so as to deceive the many people who have
known him; and that is why I will take no step, nor even consider the
matter, until _he has been produced_."
"I suppose that is best," answered Helen. "And meanwhile what are you
going to do?"
"I am going to stay here, with what patience I may. How I am to live
alone, I do not exactly see--for Mrs. Singleton is going away; but now
that I have you again, I have taken heart. You will recommend some one
to stay with me."
"I will do better than that: I will take you home with me."
"Oh, no!" said Marion, shrinking a little; "that can not be. It is
like you, dear Helen, to propose it; but I do not think my aunt would
like--stop! I know she would be kind, and try not to show what she
felt; but I should be aware of it--aware that she has no respect for me
in her heart, and I should be more ill at ease there than here. This
is my home for the present; it may not be so long, and I may never
have another. So let me keep it while I may. Find me some good, quiet
woman--you know everyone in Scarborough--to stay with me; and come
yourself whenever you can, and I shall be content."
"There will be no difficulty in finding such a person as you want,"
said Helen. "But I think my plan is best."
Marion shook her head. "No," she insisted. "I abused your hospitality
once. I can never forget that; and I do not think that, kind and good
as she is, my aunt will ever forget it; so do not let us talk of my
going to you. Some day, perhaps, if I have no other refuge in the
world, I may come and ask you for a shelter, but not now."
She was immovable in this, even when Mrs. Dalton seconded Helen's
invitation; and so they did what she asked--found a pleasant, quiet,
elderly lady to stay with her; and let her have her own way.
It was a strange time, the period of waiting which followed--a kind of
interlude, a breathing space, as it were, between the rush of events
which had reached this conclusion, and other events which were to
follow and change life yet again, in what degree no one could say. It
seemed to Marion that she could hardly be said to live during these
weeks. She merely existed--in a state partly of expectation, partly
of that lassitude which follows a high degree of mental as well as
physical tension. She had passed rapidly through many experiences, many
intense emotions; and now, menaced by others of which she could not see
the end, she suddenly sank down to rest, like a soldier on the field of
battle.
She had but two sources of pleasure during this time: one was Helen's
companionship, which she had never before valued or appreciated; the
other, the services of the Catholic church. The plain little chapel,
which had at first repelled her, began to seem to her like a true home
of the soul; religious influences sank more and more deeply into her
heart; and dimly, as new ideas shape and present themselves, there
began to dawn on her the meaning of Helen's simple words. "It certainly
would not be happiness if it did not have God's blessing on it," Helen
had said. Was it because no blessing of God had been on _her_ happiness
that, in every form, it had so quickly eluded her grasp? She asked
herself this question, and when a soul has once asked it the answer is
not long in coming. But whether or not it will be heeded when it comes,
is too often a matter of doubt. Impressions pass quickly, the sway of
the world is hard to break, and who can tell how far the poor soul may
be swept into storm and darkness before it is brought safe into port at
last?