Chapter XVIII

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.