Chapter XXIII

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?