Chapter XXVIII

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?