Marion did not in the least relax her preparations for departure, and
she gave no sign to Mr. Singleton of perceiving the end which he had in
view. They progressed very far toward intimacy in the course of their
long interviews; but it was an intimacy which Marion regulated, and
to which she gave its tone, preserving without difficulty command of
the situation. Yet even while she commanded it, an instinct told her
that the hour would come very soon when this man would assert himself;
when her time of control would be over, and the feeling that betrayed
itself in his eyes and voice would find expression in a manner beyond
her power to regulate. Nevertheless, she was hardly prepared for the
declaration when it came one day, abruptly and without anticipation on
her part.
"I think, Miss Lynde," said Singleton, "that it is time you and I
understood each other--or, at least, that I understood _you_; for I am
pretty sure that you understand _me_ thoroughly. You know perfectly
well that I am in love with you. Do you intend to marry me?"
"Mr. Singleton!" exclaimed Marion, startled and considerably
discomposed. "Do I intend--" she repeated. "How could I possibly have
any intention in--in such a matter? That is a very extraordinary way of
speaking."
"Is it?" said Singleton. "But you do not expect an ordinary way of
speaking from me; for do you not make me understand every day how much
of a savage I am? What can I do except ask your intentions? For you
cannot say that you do not know I am in your hands to be dealt with as
you like."
"I know nothing of the kind," she answered, hastily. "Why should I know
it? I have been glad that we should be friends, but beyond that--"
"Do not talk nonsense!" he interrupted, somewhat roughly. "You are too
clever a woman not to have been aware from the first that there was no
friendship about it. As soon as I saw you, I made up my mind that I
would marry you if you would agree to it. And why should you not agree?
It will settle all difficulties about the fortune, and I am not really
a bad fellow at heart. I assure you of that."
"I think I know very well what kind of fellow you are," said Marion,
smiling in spite of herself. "Certainly not one who is formed on a very
conventional model. I like you very much--I am sure you know that,--but
I have no intention of marrying you."
It cost her something of an effort to say this--to put away, finally as
it were, the glittering prize that life had cast in her way. But, thus
brought face to face with the necessity for decision, she found that no
other answer was possible to her. Yet the form of words that she chose
did not convey her meaning in an unalterable sense to the man watching
her with such keen, brilliant eyes.
"You have no intention of marrying me!" he repeated. "Does that mean
that you will not form any such intention--that you will not take the
subject into consideration?"
"There is no reason why I should," she replied. "It is best that you
should think no more of it."
"I can not agree to that," he said. "On the contrary, it seems to me
best, from every point of view, that I should continue to think of it,
and endeavor to bring it to pass. I warn you that I am not a man who
is easily daunted. Unless you intend to marry some one else, I shall
continue my efforts to induce you to marry me."
"Not if I tell you there is no use in such efforts?" said Marion.
"You can not possibly tell whether there would be use in them or not,"
he persisted, "unless you are decided with regard to some other man. If
so, I hope you will tell me."
"There is no other man in question," she said, coldly. "I may surely be
supposed to know my own mind without being bound to any one."
"And I know mine," he replied, "so positively that, until you are bound
to some one else, I shall not relinquish the hope of inducing you to
marry me. I give you fair warning of that."
"Really, Mr. Singleton," said Marion, who hardly knew whether to be
vexed or amused, "you are a very singular person. Are you not aware
that a man must abide by the woman's decision in such a matter as this?"
"I am not so uncivilized as you imagine," he answered. "Of course I
know it. But everywhere and always he has the right of endeavoring to
change that decision if he can. And I have a double reason for desiring
to change yours. I not only want to marry you, but I also want you to
have your share of my fortune."
"I have no share in it," she said, haughtily--for surely such a
persistent suitor as this promised to be very troublesome;--"you know
that well, and you know also that I have forbidden you to speak of it
to me."
"Henceforth I will endeavor to obey you," he answered, with the
courtesy which now and then contrasted oddly with the usual abruptness
of his manner. "But you can not forbid me to think of it--nor of you."
"I hope," she said, "that when I go away you will very soon cease to
think of me."
He smiled. "Do you think," he asked, "that I shall not follow you? The
way to Europe is as open to me as to you."
"But if I forbid it?" she cried, with a sudden sense of dismay.
"You have no right to forbid it," he answered, quietly. "I have no
intention of accompanying you, and I have surely been guilty of nothing
which could lead you to disown my acquaintance should we meet in Rome
or elsewhere."
Marion fancied that after his declaration, and the refusal with which
it had been met, George Singleton would leave Scarborough, since he had
certainly no business to detain him there. But that gentleman proved
himself to be of another opinion. He not only remained in Scarborough,
but he continued his visits with the same regularity which had
characterized them before. Partly vexed, partly amused, Marion,
nevertheless, took precautions to guard against any embarrassing
renewal of his suit. She ceased to receive him alone, and whenever it
was possible she turned him over to Helen for entertainment. To this
he apparently did not object in the least. He had hardly met Miss
Morley before, and her soft gentleness charmed him. It was the type of
womanhood best suited to his own passionate, impulsive nature; and he
yielded to its influence with an _abandon_ that surprised himself.
"You have no idea what an effect you have upon me," he said to her on
one occasion. "When I come into your presence I am like a cat that is
smoothed the right way--you put me into harmony and accord with all the
world."
It was impossible not to laugh at the frankness of this assertion, as
well as the homeliness of the comparison. "I am very glad to hear that
my presence has a good effect upon you," said Helen; "although I do not
know why it should be so."
"I suppose some people would call it magnetism," he answered; "but I
think it is simply owing to the fact that your nature is so placid
and gentle that you exercise a calming influence upon the passions of
others."
"My nature is not so placid and gentle as you imagine, perhaps," she
said, with something of a shadow stealing over her face. "I have
passions too."
"Have you?" he asked, rather incredulously. "Well, if so they must
be of a very mild order, or else you understand managing them in a
wonderful manner. I wish you would teach me how to manage mine."
She looked at him with her blue eyes, and shook her head. "I am afraid
you would not care to learn the only thing that I could teach," she
said.
"Why not? I think that I should like to learn anything that you would
teach."
"Perhaps, then, if our acquaintance lasts long enough, I may take you
at your word some day," she replied, smiling.
In saying this she thought herself very safe; for she had little idea
that their association would outlast the day on which Marion left
Scarborough. She knew that the latter had been offered the opportunity
of regaining her lost fortune in the most legitimate and satisfactory
way, and had little doubt but that the matter would end by her
accepting George Singleton.
"For Marion was never meant to be poor," she said to herself; "and he
really seems to have a great deal of good in him--much more than one
could have fancied. And he takes her treatment of him very nicely. It
is kind of him to seem to like my society, instead of finding me a
dreadful bore."
She said as much as this to Marion, who laughed. "There is very good
reason for his not finding you a bore," Marion replied. "He enjoys your
society much more than mine--it suits him better. I can see that very
plainly. In fact, the thing is, that he and I are too much alike to
assimilate well. We are both too fiery, too impulsive in our natures
and strong in our passions. You are the counteracting influence that we
need. Instinct tells him so, as experience tells me."
"Marion, what utter nonsense!"
"So far from that, the very best sense, my dear. There is only one
person who has a more beneficial influence upon me than you have. That
is Claire, and I am going to her. If Mr. Singleton is wise he will stay
with you."
"If I thought you were in earnest in saying such a thing as that, you
would really provoke me," said Helen, gravely.
"Then you may be sure that I am not in earnest," cried Marion; "for I
would do anything sooner than provoke you. No man in the world is worth
a single vexed thought between you and me."
It was a few days after this that, everything being at last
settled, she finally left the place where she had gained and lost a
fortune,--where she had sounded some depths of experience and learned
some lessons of wisdom that could not soon be forgotten.
"Marion," said Helen the evening before her departure, "I am going to
have a Mass said for my intention to-morrow morning--and, of course,
that means you. Will you not come to the church?"
"With pleasure," answered the other, quickly. "Indeed I am not so
absolutely a heathen but that I meant to go, in any event. I am setting
out anew in life, as it were; and I should like to ask God to bless
this second beginning, as I certainly did not ask Him to bless the
first."
"Then you will be at the church at eight o'clock?" said Helen. "And
afterward breakfast with me, so that you will not need to return here
before meeting your train. I should like the last bread that you break
in Scarborough to be broken with me."
"It shall be exactly as you wish," observed Marion, touched by the
request, which meant more, she knew, than appeared on the surface. For
it was not only that Helen wished to renew the link of hospitality--not
only that she desired, as she said, that the last bread broken by
Marion in Scarborough should be broken with her in token of their
renewed amity,--but she wished to show to all the world that had so
curiously watched the course of events in which the beautiful stranger
was concerned, that their friendly and cousinly relations were
unchanged. All this Marion understood without words.
Eight o'clock the next morning found her in the church. As she
acknowledged, she had asked no blessing of God on her former beginning
of life--that life which had come to such utter failure in every
respect; and in the realization of this failure much of her proud
self-confidence had forsaken her. She had asked only that opportunity
should be given, and she had felt within herself the power to win all
that she desired. Opportunity _had_ been given, and she had ended by
losing everything, saving only the remnant of her self-respect and
Helen's generous affection. These thoughts came to her with force as
she knelt in the little chapel, knowing that she was going forth to
a new life with diminished prospects of worldly success, but with a
deeper knowledge of herself, of the responsibilities of existence, and
of the claims of others, than she had possessed before.
Then she remembered how she had knelt in this same place with Brian
Earle, and felt herself drawn near to the household of faith. It had
been an attraction which had led to nothing, because it had been
founded on human rather than on divine love. Now that the human love
was lost, had the divine no meaning left? The deep need of her soul
answered this; and when she bent her head as the priest at the altar
offered the Holy Sacrifice, it was with a more real act of faith and
worship than she had made on that day when it seemed as if but a step
divided her from the Church of God.
Mass over, she went to say a few words of farewell to Father Byrne, and
then accompanied Helen home. It had been a long time since she entered
her aunt's house; and the recollections of her first coming into it,
and of the welcome which had then met her, seemed to rush upon her as
she crossed the threshold. "If it were only to do over again!" she
thought, with a pang. When they sat down to breakfast she glanced at
the place which she had so often seen Rathborne occupy, and thought
that but for her Helen might never have been undeceived, might never
have suffered with regard to him. "At least not in the way she has
suffered," she said to herself. "In some way, however, she must have
suffered sooner or later. Therefore perhaps it is best as it is--for
her. But that does not excuse me. If only I might be permitted to make
some atonement!"
But atonement is difficult to make in this world, either for our
mistakes or our wrong-doing. The logic of life is stern indeed. From
certain acts flow certain consequences as inevitably as conclusions
proceed from premises or night follows day. It is vain to cry out that
we had no such end in view. The end comes despite our protests, and we
are helpless in the face of that which springs from our own deed.
These reflections had in great measure become familiar to Marion,
especially with regard to the pain she had brought upon Helen. She had
been forced to realize clearly that what it would have been easily
possible for her to avoid, it was absolutely impossible for her to
repair. To Helen's own goodness, generosity and gentleness she owed
the relief that had come to her on the subject. Nevertheless, she
longed greatly for some means of repairing the injury she had done, the
suffering she had caused, and--was it an inspiration which suddenly
seemed to suggest to her such a means?