Chapter XXI

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."