Chapter XXIX

Breakfast over, they went into the familiar sitting-room--for there was still an hour or two before Marion's train was due,--and it was there that Helen said, with a smile: "Mr. Singleton is coming to see you off: I met him yesterday evening after I left you, and he announced his intention of doing so; so I asked him to come here and accompany us to the train. Of course there is no _need_ of him: the boys will do all that is necessary; but I thought it would look better. People have talked so much about you both, that I would like them to have a public proof that you are really on very good terms."

"You think of everything, Helen," said Marion. "What a wise little head you have!"

"Do you think it is the head?" asked Helen. "I think it is the heart. One feels things rather than thinks them--at least I do."

"I know you do," said her cousin. "It is your heart in the first place; but you must not underrate your head, which certainly has something to do with it."

Helen shook the appendage in question. "Not much," she answered. "I have never fancied that my strong point was in my head."

"Head or heart, you are seldom wrong," said Marion, "when it comes to a practical decision. Whereas I--you know I have been very vain of my cleverness, and yet I am always wrong--no, don't contradict me; I mean exactly what I say, and I have the best possible reason for meaning it. But, Helen, let me ask one favor of you. When Mr. Singleton comes, leave me alone with him for a few minutes. Now mind, _only_ for a few minutes. I have something to say to him, but it will take only a little time to say it."

"That will be easily arranged," said Helen, who would not suffer herself even to look a question.

So when Mr. Singleton presently arrived, she spirited herself and her mother out of the room in the most unobtrusive manner possible, leaving the young man alone with Marion.

The latter did not waste one of the minutes for which she had asked. She plunged without preface into the subject on which she desired to speak. "Mr. Singleton," she began, abruptly, "I am going to say something very unconventional; but you who are so unconventional yourself will pardon me, I am sure. Briefly, I am going to recall to your mind something that you said when--when we had our last private conversation. You then declared your intention of following me abroad, is it not so?"

"Yes," answered Singleton, with composure; "I did, and I meant what I said. You will soon see me over there."

"I think not--I hope not," she said, quickly; "for I am sure that you have too much self-respect to persecute a woman with attentions which can lead to nothing. And I tell you in the most positive manner that they can only bring you disappointment."

"You can not be sure of that," he observed, with a touch of his former obstinancy. "Women have sometimes changed their minds."

She shook her head. "Not women who feel as I do. Listen, and I will tell you the whole truth about myself, since there is no other way of convincing you. I will not deny that what you offer is in some degree a temptation to me--I am worldly enough and unworthy enough for that; and it has been a temptation, too, to suffer you to follow me, and keep, as it were, the chance open, in case I should find that it was the best life offered me. But I know this would be wrong; for I cannot deceive myself into fancying that there is any doubt whatever about my feelings. If my heart were empty, you might in time fill it. But it is not--I will be perfectly frank with you at any cost to myself,--another man has long since filled it."

There was a pause after these words--words which it cost Marion very much to utter. To acknowledge even to herself the fact which they expressed was hard enough; but to acknowledge it to another, to this man who sat regarding her steadily with his dark, brilliant eyes, was harder still. But in courage, at least, she was not deficient, and her own eyes met his without drooping.

"You see now why I can not let you follow a false hope in following me," she continued, when after a moment he had still not spoken. "I may be mercenary in some degree, but I am not mercenary enough to marry you for the sake of your fortune, when I love another man. I have tried to crush this love, and it humiliates me to acknowledge it; but I have incurred the humiliation in order to be perfectly frank with you, and to keep you from making a great mistake."

The last words seemed to touch him suddenly. His whole face--a face which showed every passing emotion--changed and softened. "Believe me," he said, "I appreciate your frankness, and I see no humiliation in your confession. It is good of you, however, to suffer the pain of making it in order to save me from what you think would be a mistake."

"I _know_ that it would be a mistake--a mistake in every way," she said, earnestly. "And I have made so many mistakes already that I cannot add another to the list. Believe me, if you succeeded in persuading me to marry you, it would be a mistake which we would both regret to the end of our lives. For we do not suit each other at all. When you marry you ought to select a woman different altogether from what I am: a woman gentler, yet with more moral strength."

"That may be," he answered, in a meditative tone; "but, then, no other woman can be the one to whom my father has left his fortune, who has generously given it back to me, and with whom I should like to share it."

"That is a feeling which I can understand, and which does you credit," she said. "But do you not see that I could hardly accept your suit on such a ground as that? It would have been better to have kept your fortune than to do that. No, Mr. Singleton: I beg you to think no more of this; I beg you not to follow me with any such thought in your mind. Promise me that you will not."

She leaned toward him in her earnestness, and held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty. George Singleton had something chivalrous in his nature, under all his brusque exterior; and taking the little hand he raised it to his lips.

"The confidence that you have placed in me," he said, "makes it impossible that I can do anything to annoy you. Your request is a command. I shall not follow you."

Her eyes thanked him. "Now I can go in peace, because I shall not have to think that I am misleading any one. However hard or lonely my path in life may be, I want henceforth to keep my conscience clear. I have tasted the bitterness of self-reproach, and I know what it is. Yes, you will stay. You have duties here now, and--and I hope it will not be long before you will find happiness."

He had no opportunity to reply, if he had been inclined to do so. Helen, remembering Marion's urgent request that the minutes allowed for her "few words" might be short, was heard approaching. Her clear, sweet voice gave some orders in the hall, and then she entered the room.

"I grieve to say, Marion, that it is almost time for you to go," she announced. "Ah, how sad parting is!"

Half an hour later, when Marion was borne away from Scarborough, her last backward glance showed her Helen and Singleton standing side by side on the station platform, waving her an adieu; and if she smiled at the sight, it cannot be denied that she also sighed. With her own hand she had closed the door of a possibly brilliant destiny; and, naturally enough, it had never looked so bright as when she said to herself, "That is over finally and forever."