It was without the least fear of Father Byrne's declining to have
anything to do with Marion that Helen went to him--and it was something
of a shock to her to find that Marion had been right in her opinion,
and that he very much disapproved of and distrusted that fascinating
young lady. He looked troubled at her request, and put out his lip in a
way he had when anything perplexed him.
"My dear child," he said, hesitatingly, "I really don't see what I can
do for your cousin. She is not a Catholic, she does not come to me for
religious advice; and if she wants a worldly opinion, there are many
people who could give it much better and with much more propriety than
I."
"She does not think so, Father, and neither do I. It is not merely a
worldly opinion, though it regards worldly matters; but a point where
conscience comes in, and she wants to know what is right."
"But why come to me?" he asked. "Has she not her own spiritual guides?"
"Marion!" said Helen. She laughed a little. "I cannot fancy Marion
regarding any Protestant as a spiritual guide; and since, as you say,
she is not a Catholic, she has none at all. But I believe that her
becoming a Catholic is only a question of time, and therefore she will
have confidence in your opinion."
Father Byrne put out his lip still farther and shook his head. "I do
not know very much of the young lady," he replied; "but from what I
do know I should say that her ever becoming a Catholic is more than
doubtful."
"I am afraid that you are prejudiced against her, Father," said Helen.
"I think not," he answered, gravely. "Why should I be prejudiced
against any one? But I should profit very little by my experience
of the world if I did not learn to judge character from some
manifestations. I do not wish to say anything severe of your cousin, my
child, but she has not impressed me favorably."
"Poor Marion!" said Helen. "She is and always has been her own worst
enemy. Nobody knows her as well as I do, Father--that is, nobody except
Claire;--and know how much good there really is in her. All that is
worse is on the surface; and she shows it so recklessly that people
think there is nothing else. But I see a great change in her of late,
and I think it would be well to encourage her in anything that draws
her nearer to religious influences. Therefore, if it is not asking too
much of you to see her and give her a little advice on this matter,
which is so important to her, I should be very glad."
"Should you?" asked the good priest, smiling. "Well, to make you glad
in such an unselfish way I would do a good deal. There is really no
reason why I should not give Miss Lynde the counsel she asks, though it
is rather curious that she should seek it from me. You can bring her
to me whenever it is convenient for you; and, if she does not object, I
should wish you to be present at the interview."
"She will not object," answered Helen; "and it is very good of you to
consent. I can bring her immediately, for I left her in the church
while I came to you. There is need for haste, because to-morrow
probably she will have to decide finally what she is to do."
"Bring her, then, at once," said Father Byrne, with an air of
resignation. He felt, though he did not say, that his own people
troubled him quite sufficiently with their personal affairs, without
an outsider finding it expedient to throw upon him the very perplexing
burden of decision in an affair which involved the interests of others.
And Marion Lynde was the last person with whose affairs he would have
wished to be concerned in the least degree. If any one beside Helen had
come to him in her behalf, he would certainly have refused to do so;
but it was impossible for him to refuse Helen. It was not only that he
was attached to her, as, in one degree or another, every one who knew
her was; but he was specially touched by her interest in and kindness
to one who had certainly been the cause of much pain to her, if not of
serious injury. "If she had not the most generous heart in the world,
she would not vex herself about Miss Lynde's affairs," he said to
himself; "but since she does, I should not mind helping her a little."
So it came to pass that Helen brought Marion from the church to
the pastoral residence adjoining, where they found Father Byrne
awaiting them in the plainly-furnished sitting-room, which had yet a
picturesque, monastic suggestion from the religious objects that were
its only adornments, and its latticed windows opening on depths of
verdure. The priest received them kindly; and then, with some inward
nervousness, though outward composure, Marion opened her subject.
"I feel that I have no right at all to come to you, Father, and trouble
you with my private matters; but perhaps your kindness will lead you
to excuse me on the ground that there is no one else to whom I can go.
I have not many friends, and among them there is not one person whose
judgment in this case would not have an interested bias. Besides, I
should like to know what is the moral view of it--the really right
thing to do,--and you, if you will, can tell me that."
"I can give you the view which would be presented to a Catholic," said
Father Byrne; "but you will not recognize anything binding in that."
"I shall be bound by whatever you tell me is right," she answered,
simply. "I do not seek your advice without meaning to be guided by it,
else there would be no excuse for coming to you. I beg you to speak as
frankly as if you were addressing a Catholic."
"Tell me, then," he said, "exactly the point on which you are in doubt."
She told him briefly, but with great clearness; and he listened
attentively to all that she had to say before uttering a word. Then
when she paused he replied, with the air of one who is accustomed to
give prompt decisions:--
"From what you tell me I think there can be no question but that you
are clearly entitled to retain a part of the fortune. Since it was the
desire of the testator that, under the circumstances of the supposed
death of his son, you should have all of it, we must believe that even
had he known his son to be living he would not have failed to leave
you a legacy. It would be entirely just and right, therefore, that you
should retain a part, while it is also right that you should resign the
bulk of the estate to its natural heir."
Helen directed a triumphant glance toward Marion, which said, "You
see how entirely Father Byrne is of my opinion!" but Marion did not
perceive it. She was looking down with rather a disappointed air.
"I should prefer to give it all up," she said--"to keep nothing."
Father Byrne spread out his hands with a gesture very familiar to those
who knew him well. "There is nothing to prevent that," he observed. "It
would not be wrong; but, if you will permit me to say so, it would be
foolish. Why should you wish to defeat entirely the kind intentions of
the dead man in your behalf?"
"I can hardly explain," she answered, "without going into personal
details, which would not interest you. About the manner in which I
received this money, my conscience is clear enough; for I did nothing
to induce Mr. Singleton to make such a will, and no one was more
surprised by it than I. But--before that--" she hesitated, paused, then
with an effort went on: "Everything might have been different if I had
acted differently at an earlier period. I made a very deliberate and
mercenary choice then. It led to this disposition of Mr. Singleton's
fortune; and now I feel that there is retribution, punishment,
whatever you like to call it, in the circumstances that are taking
it away from me. That makes me reluctant to keep any of it. I should
feel as if I were still being paid for--what I lost. I express myself
obscurely, but I hope that you understand me."
"Yes," he replied, "I think that I do. You feel as if this fortune had
been bought at a certain price, and therefore it has lost value in
your eyes. That is purely a matter of feeling, with which the abstract
question involved has nothing to do--unless there is some point on
which your conscience accuses you of wrong-doing."
She shook her head. "There is none directly touching the money. But,
indirectly, the money was the root of everything--of a choice which has
brought me no happiness."
"And you think, perhaps, that by resigning it you may recover what you
have lost?"
She colored vividly. "No," she said quickly, almost indignantly. "I
have no thought of the kind. That choice is made irrevocably. I can
recover nothing but my own self-respect."
Father Byrne looked a little puzzled. "I fail to see," he said, "how
your self-respect has been lost by having a fortune left you which you
declare you did nothing to secure. But that is a question for yourself
alone, since it is evidently a matter of feeling. The moral point I
have answered to the best of my ability."
"You think that I ought to retain part of this fortune?"
"I cannot go so far as to say that you _ought_. There is no moral
obligation binding you to do so, as far as I am aware of the
circumstances. I can only say that it is clearly right for you to do
so--if you think fit."
Evidently after this there was no more to be said; and Marion rose to
take leave, saying a few words of sincere thanks for the kindness with
which he had received her. "It has been very good of you to advise me,"
she said, gratefully. "I shall never forget it."
"I only hope that the advice may be of some use to you," answered
Father Byrne. "But it will be better if you ask God to guide and direct
you."
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked Helen, when they found themselves
outside. "Have you decided what to do?"
"Not yet," said Marion. "I have only been told what I may do, and I
must take a little time to decide whether or not I will do it."
"Then you have really gained nothing by going to Father Byrne," Helen
continued, in a disappointed tone.
"Oh, yes! I have gained a great deal," the other said quickly. "I seem
to feel myself standing on firm ground--to know just what I ought to do
and what I ought not, what is permitted and what is not. The question
still remains, however, whether or not to do what is permitted."
"I can't see that you have gained much," replied Helen, with a sigh.
But Marion felt that she had gained much when she faced the question
alone, as all important questions must at last be faced. She had been
assured that there was no reason why she should not retain a part of
the money which had come into her possession; and she said to herself
that even Brian Earle--indeed Brian Earle of all men--would recognize
the authority of the voice which had so assured her. She need not hold
herself grasping and mercenary if she did this--if she kept a little
of the fortune that its possessor had given to her in its entirety. So
much, therefore, was clear. But there could be no doubt that she would
prefer to give it all up--to close forever the passage in her life
which had been so bitter, and in the end so humiliating; to disprove by
a magnificent act of generosity all the charges of scheming which she
felt sure had been made against her, and to know that Brian Earle would
learn that none of his uncle's money remained in her hands.
But if she gratified herself in this manner what was before her?
Not only the old dependence, but a dependence which would be doubly
embittered by the resentment with which her relatives were sure to
regard the step which she thought of taking. "My uncle will never
forgive me," she thought. "He will say that I had no right to
throw away the means to help myself, and fall back on his already
overburdened hands. That is true. It will be bitter as death to do so.
And yet how can I keep this money? Oh, if I only had been spared the
necessity of such a choice! If it was wrong to desire wealth so much,
surely I am punished for it, since what it has brought on me is worse
than the poverty from which I have escaped. That, at least, was simple;
I had only to endure it. But this is fraught with serious consequences,
that go beyond myself and touch other people. What shall I do--ah! what
shall I do?"
She was walking up and down her chamber, all alone in the silence of
the night. Suddenly, as she wrung her hands with the silent force of
her inward appeal, Father Byrne's last words recurred to her memory:
"It will be better if you ask God to guide and direct you." She stopped
short. Was there any hope that God would really do this if she ventured
to ask Him? It proved how much of an unconscious pagan she was that
such a question should have occurred to her. But the imperative need at
this moment for some guidance, stronger even than that to which she had
already appealed, seemed to answer the question. She sank on her knees
and lifted her heart to Him who hears all petitions, begging, simply,
earnestly, like a child, to be directed into the course right and best
to pursue.
The next morning Marion's companion--a quiet, elderly widow--noticed
that she was more than usually restless; that she settled to no
occupation, but wandered from the house to the garden and back again;
from room to room and window to window, as if in expectation of some
event. Mrs. Winter was not a person easily "fidgeted:" she bore this
for some time without remark, but at length she was driven to say, "You
are looking for some one this morning?"
"Yes," answered Marion, promptly. "I am looking for two people, and I
have very important business to settle when they come. That makes me a
little restless. I wish it were over." Then she laughed a little. "It
is not every day, however, that one has a chance to see a dead man,"
she said. "That should prove interesting."
Mrs. Winter looked startled. "A dead man!" she repeated. "How--what do
you mean?"
"I mean," replied Marion, calmly, "that it is a case of the dead
alive. You have not heard, then? If you went out into Scarborough,
I fancy you would hear very quickly. Mr. Singleton's son, who was
supposed to be dead, has proved to be very much alive, and I am
expecting a visit from him to-day."
"My dear Miss Lynde!"--the good woman fairly gasped--"what a piece of
news! And how quietly you take it! Mr. Singleton's son alive! Good
Heavens! In that case, who will have the property?"
"That is what we are going to settle," said Marion. "It strikes me that
a son should inherit his father's estate; do you not think so?"
"I don't know," answered Mrs. Winter, more than ever confounded by
this cool inquiry. "Usually--oh! yes, I suppose so," she added after a
minute. "But in this case--the young man was so wild that his father
cast him off, did he not?"
"I never heard the story clearly from any one who had authority to tell
it," answered Marion. "I do not know what occurred between father and
son, but I am quite sure that Mr. Singleton believed his son to be dead
when he made the will in which he left me his fortune."
"Then, my dear, if I may ask, what do you mean to do?"
"What is right and honest," said Marion, with a faint smile. "Wish me
courage, for there is the door-bell!"