Fairy Gold

FAIRY GOLD

By CHRISTIAN REID

Author of "Véra's Charge," "Philip's Restitution," "A Child of
Mary," "His Victory," etc.

THE AVE MARIA PRESS
NOTRE DAME, INDIANA

Copyright, 1897,

BY

D.E. HUDSON.

FAIRY GOLD.

PRELUDE.

"Claire! do stop that tiresome practicing and come here. Helen and I want you."

The voice was very clear and vibrating, and had a ring of command in it as it uttered these words; while the summer dusk was dying away, and the summer air came soft and sweet into the school-room of a convent, that, from the eminence on which it stood, overlooked a city at its feet, and the rise and fall of Atlantic tides. It was drawing toward the close of the exercise-hour, but the two girls who stood together in school-girl fashion beside an open window, and the third, who in an adjoining music-room was diligently practicing Chopin, were not the only ones who had neglected its observance and incurred no rebuke; for was not to-morrow the end of the scholastic year, and did not relaxation of rules already reign from dormitory to class-room?

Many hearts were beating high at the thought of the freedom which that morrow would bring; many dreams were woven of the bright world which lay beyond these quiet shades; of pleasures which were to replace the monotonous round of occupation in which youth had so far been spent—the round of lessons from teachers whose voices were gentle as their faces were holy and serene; of quiet meditations in the beautiful chapel, with its sculptured altar and stained-glass windows and never-dying lamp; of walks in the green old garden, and romps along its far-stretching alleys. They were ready to leave it all behind, these careless birds, eager to try their new-fledged wings; and when the heat and burden of the day should come down upon them, how much they would give for one hour of the old quiet peace, the old happy ignorance!

And among them all no face was more bright with triumphant hope—or was it triumphant resolve?—than hers whose voice went ringing through the almost deserted school-room, in the half-entreaty, half-command recorded above.

The sound of the piano ceased on the instant; a slight rustling followed, as of music being put away; and then a girl came down the middle aisle of desks, toward the window which overlooked the garden and faced the glowing western sky, where the two girls were standing, both of whom turned as she advanced.

"You must pardon me," she said, in a tone of apology. "I did not mean to stay so long, but I forget myself when I am at the piano, and I could scarcely bear to think that this was my last hour of practice."

"I am quite sure that it will not be your last hour of practice," said the girl who had spoken first. "You are too fond of drudgery for that. But how can you talk of not bearing to think of its being the last here, when Helen and I have been congratulating each other on the fact until we exhausted all our expressions of pleasure, and had to call on you to help us?"

"Then you would have done better to let me finish my practicing," said the other, with a faint smile; "for I cannot help you with one expression of pleasure: I am too sorry."

"Sorry!"—it was the one called Helen who broke in here. "Oh! how can you say that, when we are going home to be so happy?"

"You are going home, dear," remarked Claire, gently.

"And are not you? Is not my home your home, and will I not be hurt if you do not feel it so?"

"You are very kind, dear," said Claire; "but you cannot give me what God has denied. Perhaps I too might be glad of to-morrow, Helen, if I had your future or Marion's courage; but, lacking both, I only feel afraid and sad. I feel as if I should like to stay here forever—as if I were being pushed out into a world with which I am not able to cope."

"But a world which shall never harm you so long as my love and Marion's courage can help you," said Helen, as she passed her disengaged arm around the slender form. "You know we three are pledged to stand together as long as we live; are we not, Marion?"

"I know that Claire is very foolish," answered Marion. "If I had her talent I should be eager to go into the world—eager to cope with and overcome it. Everyone says that she is certain to succeed, and of all the gifts in the world fame must be the sweetest."

"I suppose it is," said Claire; "but I know enough of art—just enough—to be aware that it is a long journey before one can even dream of fame. I love to paint—oh! yes, better than anything else,—but I know what difficult work lies before me in becoming an artist."

"Yet you do not mind work," observed Helen, in a wondering tone.

"No." answered the other, "not here, where I had help and encouragement and the sense of safe shelter. But out in the world, where I shall have only myself to look to, and no one to care whether I fail or not—well, I confess my courage ebbs as I think of that."

"How strange!" said Marion. "If my hands were as free as yours are, I should like nothing better than for them to be as empty—if you can call hands empty that have such a power."

"And are not your hands as free as mine?" asked the other. "We are both orphans, and both—"

"Poor," said Marion, frankly. "Yes, but with a difference. Most people, I suppose, would think the difference in my favor; I think it is in yours. You have no family obligations to prevent your doing what you will with your life, from following the bent of your genius; while I—well, it is true I have no genius, but if I had it would be all the same. My uncle would never consent to my doing anything to lower the family dignity, and I owe him enough to make me feel bound to respect his wishes."

"It is well to have some one whose wishes one is bound to respect," said Claire gently, and then a silence fell.

They were decided contrasts, these three girls, as they stood together by the open window, and looked out on the bright sunset and down into the large garden;—decided contrasts, yet all possessed in greater or less degree the gift of beauty.

It was certainly in greater degree with Marion Lynde, whose daily expanding loveliness had been the marvel of all who saw her for two years past;—the marvel even in this quiet convent, where human aspect was perhaps of less account than any where else on all God's earth. The little children had looked with admiration on her brilliant face, the older girls had gazed on it with throbs of unconscious envy; the nuns had glanced pityingly at the girl who bore so proudly that often fatal dower; and many times the Mother Superior had sent up a special prayer for this defiant soldier of life, when she saw her kneeling at Mass or Benediction with a many-tinted glory streaming over her head.

As she stood now in her simple school dress, Marion was a picture of striking beauty. Tall, slight, graceful, there was in her grace something imperial and unlike other women. Her white skin, finely grained and colorless as the petal of a lily, suited the regular, clear-cut features; while her eyes were large and dark—splendid eyes, which seemed to carry lustre in their sweeping glance,—and her hair was a mass of red gold. Altogether a face to study with a sense of artistic pleasure,—a face to admire as one admires a statue or a painting; but not a face that attracted or wakened love, as many less beautiful faces do, or as that of her cousin, Helen Morley, did.

For everyone loved Helen—a winsome creature, with lips that seemed formed only for smiles, and hands ever ready to caress and aid; with endearing ways that the hardest heart could not have resisted, and a heaven-born capacity for loving that seemed inexhaustible. It was impossible to look on the bright young face and think that sorrow could ever darken it, or that tears would ever dim the clear violet of those joyous eyes. From the Mother Superior down to the youngest scholar, all loved the girl, and all recognized how entirely she seemed marked out for happy destinies. "You must not let the brightness of this world veil Heaven from your sight, my child," the nuns would say, as they laid their hands on the silken-soft head, and longed to hold back from the turmoil of life this white dove, whose wings were already spread for flight from the quiet haven where they had been folded for a time.

Least beautiful of the three girls was Claire Alford,—a girl whose reserved manner had perhaps kept love as well as familiarity at bay during the years of her convent tutelage. Even Marion, with all her haughty waywardness, had more friends than this quiet student. Yet no one could find fault with Claire. She was always considerate and gentle, quick to oblige and slow to take offense. But she lived a life absorbed within itself, and those around her felt this. They felt that her eyes were fixed on some distant goal, to which every thought of her mind and effort of her nature was directed.

The only child and orphan of a struggling artist—a man of genius, but who died before he conquered the recognition of the world,—Claire knew that her slender fortune would hardly suffice for the expenses of her education, and that afterward she must look for aid to herself alone. Usually life goes hard with a woman under such circumstances as these. But Claire had one power as a weapon with which to fight her way. Her talent for painting had been the astonishment of all her teachers, and it was a settled thing that she would make art the object and pursuit of her life. If least beautiful of the three girls who stood there together, an observant glance might have lingered longest on her. There was something very attractive in the gray eyes that gazed so steadily from under their long lashes, and in the smile that stirred now and then the usually grave and gentle lips.

It only remains to be added that both Claire and Helen were Catholics, while Marion had been brought up in Protestantism, which resulted, in her case, in absolute religious indifference.

The silence had lasted for some time, when Helen's voice at last broke it, saying:—

"You are right, Claire. It does make one sad to think that we are standing together for the last time in our dear old school-room. We have been so happy here! I wonder if we shall be very much more happy out in the world?"

"I doubt if we shall ever be half as happy again," answered Claire.

"Oh, you prophet of evil! Why not?"

"Why not, Helen!" repeated Claire. "Because I doubt if we shall ever again feel so entirely at peace with ourselves and with others as we have felt here."

"It is a very nice place," observed Helen; "and I love the Mother Superior and all the Sisters dearly. But, then, of course, I want to see mamma and Harry and little Jock. I want to ride Brown Bess again, and I do want to go to a party Claire."

"Well," said Claire, smiling, "I suppose there is no doubt that you will go to a good many parties, and I hope you will enjoy them."

"There is no doubt of her enjoyment," interposed Marion, speaking in her usual half satiric tone, "if Paul Rathborne is to be there."

"I was not thinking of Paul Rathborne, and neither, I am sure, was Helen," said Claire.

"That is likely!" cried Marion, laughing. "Don't, Helen! I would not tell a story to oblige Claire, if I were you."

But Helen had apparently little idea of telling the story. Even in the dusk, the flush that overspread her face was visible, and the lids drooped over the violet eyes.

"At all events, we will not talk of him," said Claire, decidedly. "We will talk of ourselves and our own futures. We are standing on the threshold of a new life, and surely we may spare a little time in wondering how it will fare with us. Marion, what do you say?"

"If one may judge the future by the past, I should say, so far as I am concerned, badly enough," Marion replied. "But whether I alter matters for better or for worse, I don't mean to go on in the same old way; I shall change the road, if I don't mend it."

"Change it in what manner?"

"I don't know exactly. Circumstances will have to decide that for me. But I don't mean to go back to my uncle's, to share the family economics, and hear the family complaints, and wear Adela's old dresses; you may be sure of that, Claire!"

"But how can you avoid it," asked Claire, "when you have just said that you will not disregard your uncle's wishes by attempting to support yourself?"

"I shall not do anything to hurt the Lynde pride," answered the girl, mockingly. "I shall only take my gifts of body and mind into the world, and see what I can make of them."

"Make of them!" repeated Helen. "In what way?"

"There is only one way that I care about," returned the other, carelessly: "the way of a fortune."

"Oh! I understand: you mean to marry a rich man."

"I mean that only as a last resort. The world would think worse of me if I robbed a man of his fortune; but I should think worse of myself, and wrong him more, if I married him to obtain it. No, Helen, I shall not do that—if I can help it."

"But you would not be wronging him, Marion, if you loved him."

"And do you think," demanded the young cynic, "that one is likely to love the man it is best for one to marry?"

"Yes, I think so—I know so."

"Ah! well, perhaps it may be so to such a child of happy fate as you are, but it is never likely to occur to me."

"And is a fortune all that you mean to look for in life?" asked Helen.

"Why should I look for anything more? Does not that comprise everything? Ah! you have never known the bitterness of poverty, or you would not doubt that when one has fortune, one has all that is necessary for happiness."

"But I have known poverty," broke in Claire; "and I know, Marion, that there are many worse things in life than want of money, and many better things than possessing it."

"That is all you know about the matter," replied Marion, with an air of scorn. "Perhaps I, too, might be able to feel in that way, if I had known only the poverty that you have—a picturesque, Bohemian poverty, with no necessity to pretend to be what you were not. But genteel poverty, which must keep up appearances by a hundred makeshifts and embarrassments and meannesses—have you ever known that? It has been the experience of my life,—one which I shudder to recall, and which I would sooner die than go back to."

"Poor darling! you shall not go back to it," cried Helen.

But Marion threw off her caressing hand.

"Don't, Helen!" she said, sharply. "I can't bear pity, even from you. But I have talked enough of myself. You both know what I am going to do: to make a fortune by some means. Now it is your turn, Claire, to tell your ambition."

"You know it very well," answered Claire, quietly. "I am going to be an artist, and perhaps, if God helps me, to make a name."

"Yes, I know," said Marion, gloomily. "Yours is a noble ambition, and I think you will succeed."

"I hope so," responded Claire, looking out on the sunset with her earnest eyes. "At least I know that I have resolution and perseverance, and I used to hear my father say that with those things even mediocre talent could do much."

"And yours is not mediocre. Yet you talk of being sorry to leave here, with such a prospect before you."

"Such a battle, too. And people say that the world is very hard and stern to those who fight it single-handed."

"So much the better!" cried Marion, flinging back her head with an air of defiance. "There will be so much the more glory in triumph."

"You never seem to think of failure," observed Claire, with a smile. "But now Helen must tell us what she desires her future to be."

"Mine?" said Helen. "Oh! I leave all such things as fortune and fame to you and Marion. I mean only to be happy."

"To be happy!" repeated Marion. "Well, I admire your modesty. You have set up for yourself a much more difficult aim than either Claire's or my own. And how do you mean to be happy? That is the next question."

"I don't know," replied Helen, with a laugh. "I just mean to go home to enjoy myself; that is all. And how happy it makes me to think that you are both going with me!"

"Dear little Helen!" said Claire, caressingly. "But it will not make you unhappy to hear that I am not going with you, will it? I have just found out that I can not go."

"Not go!" repeated Helen. The deepest surprise and disappointment were written on her face. "O, Claire, it is impossible that you can mean it—that you can be so unkind! Why do you say such a thing?"

"I say it because it is true, dear; though it is a greater disappointment to me than to you. I have just had a letter from my guardian, telling me he has found an opportunity to send me abroad with a lady, an acquaintance of his own; and I have no choice but to go."

"I should think you would be delighted to find such an opportunity," said Marion. "But surely the lady is not going to Rome at this season?"

"No: she is going to Germany for the summer, and to Italy in the autumn; which is a very good thing, for I shall see the galleries of Dresden and Munich before I go to Rome. Of course I am glad—I must be glad—to find the opportunity at once; but I had promised myself the pleasure of a quiet, happy month with Helen and you, and I am sorry to lose it."

"It is too bad," said Helen, with a sound as of tears in her voice. "I had anticipated so much pleasure in our all three being together! And now—why could not your guardian have waited to find the lady, or why does she not put off going abroad until the autumn?"

"Why, in short, is not the whole scheme of things arranged with reference to one insignificant person called Claire Alford?" replied Claire, laughing. "No, dear; there is no help for it. I must give up the idea of a short rest before the combat."

"And now there is no telling when we shall all be together again!" said Helen. "I could not have believed that such a disappointment was in store for me."

"I hope you will never know a worse one," remarked Claire. "But if we live, we must meet again some day. We are too good friends to suffer such trifles as time and space to separate us always."

"But you are going so far away, one cannot tell when or where that meeting will be," said Helen, still mournfully.

"Perhaps it may be when Marion has made her fortune, and asks us to visit her castle," answered Claire. "Marion, have you formed any plans as to where it is to be situated? Marion, don't you hear?"

"What is it?" asked Marion, starting. "I beg your pardon, but I was thinking. Did you say, Claire, that this visit, which you could not make, would have been a rest before the combat to you? I was wondering if it will be a rest to me or a beginning."

She spoke half dreamily, and neither of the others answered. They only stood with the sunset glow falling on their fair young faces, their wistful gaze resting upon each other, and quite silent, until a bell pealed softly out on the twilight air, and their last school-day ended forever.

CHAPTER I.

There is nothing specially attractive about Scarborough—a town which nestles among green hills near the foot of the Blue Ridge,—except its salubrious and delightful climate, which has long drawn summer visitors from the lower malarial country; but if it had been as beautiful as Naples or as far-famed as Venice, it could not have wakened more loving delight than that which shone in Helen Morley's eyes as she drew near it. For that deeply-rooted attachment to familiar scenes—to those aspects of nature on which the eyes first opened, and which to the child are like the face of another mother—was as strong in her as it is in most people of affectionate character. For several miles before the train reached Scarborough, she was calling Marion's attention to one familiar landmark after another; and when finally they stopped at the station on the outskirts of the town, her eagerness knew no bounds.

"Come, Marion; here we are!" she cried, springing up hastily. But at that moment the car was burst open by a tall young man, who entered, followed by two small boys, upon all three of whom, as it seemed to Marion, Helen, with a glad little cry, precipitated herself. There were embraces, kisses, inquiries for a moment; then the young man turned and held out his hand, saying, "This is Miss Lynde, I am sure?"

"Yes," said Helen, turning her flushed, smiling face. "And this is my cousin, Frank Morley, Marion. And here is my brother Harry, who has almost grown to be a man since I went away; and here is little Jock."

Marion shook hands with all these new acquaintances; the boys seized bags and baskets, and the young man led the way from the car and assisted them to the platform outside, near which a large open carriage was standing, with a broadly-smiling ebony coachman, whom Helen greeted warmly. Then her cousin told her that she had better drive home at once. "I shall stay and attend to the trunks, and will see you later," he said.

So Helen, Marion, and the boys were bundled into the carriage, and drove away through the streets of Scarborough,—Helen explaining that her home was at the opposite end of the town from the station. "Indeed we are quite in the county," she said: "and I like it much better than living in town."

"Who would wish to live in a town like this!" asked Marion, eying disdainfully the rural-looking streets through which they were passing. "I like the overflowing life, the roar and fret of a great city; but places of this kind seem to me made only to put people to sleep, mentally as well as physically."

"Oh, Scarborough is a very nice place when you know it!" said Helen, in arms at once for her birth-place. "And I assure you people are not asleep in it, by any means."

"These young gentlemen certainly look wide awake," resumed Marion, regarding the two boys, who were in turn regarding her with large and solemn eyes. "And so looked your cousin—very wide awake indeed."

"Oh, Frank is a delightful boy!" exclaimed Helen; "and I am very fond of him."

"I am glad to hear it," said Marion. "I hope you will be fond enough of him to keep him away from me; for if I abhor anything, it is a boy—I mean" (with a glance at the two young faces before her) "a boy who fancies himself a man."

"Frank is twenty years old," observed Harry, who, being himself barely ten, naturally regarded this as a venerable age.

"So I imagined," replied Marion; "and twenty is not my favorite age—for a man. Jock's age suits me better. Jock, how old are you?"

Jock replied that he was seven; but at this point an exclamation from Helen cut the conversation short; for now they were rapidly approaching a house situated in the midst of large grounds on the outskirts of the town,—a shade-embowered dwelling, on the broad veranda of which flitting forms were to be seen, as the carriage paused a moment for the gate to be opened. Helen stood up and eagerly waved her handkerchief; then they drove in, swept around a large circle and drew up before an open door, from which poured a troop of eager welcomers of all ages and colors.

It seemed to Marion a babel of sound which ensued—kisses, welcomes, hand-shakings, questions,—then she was swept along by the tide into the cool, garnished house, and thence on to a bowery chamber, where she was left for a little while to herself: since Helen was, after all, the grand object of the ovation, and it was into Helen's room that the loyal crowd gathered, who had merely given to Marion that cordial welcome which no stranger ever failed to receive on a Southern threshold.

Only Helen's mother—who, having been twice married, was now Mrs. Dalton—lingered behind with the young stranger, and looked earnestly into the fair face, as if seeking a likeness.

"You are very little like your mother, my dear," she said at last; "though you have her eyes. Alice was beautiful, but it was a gentle beauty; while you—well, I think you must be altogether a Lynde."

"I know that I am very like the Lyndes," Marion answered. "I have a miniature of my father, which I can see myself that I resemble."

"He was a very handsome man," said Mrs. Dalton, "and daring—ah! it was no wonder that he was among the first to rush into the war, and among the first to be killed! My child, you do not know how my heart has yearned over you during all these years, how happy I was to hear of your being at the convent with Helen, and now how glad I am to see you under my own roof. I want you to feel that you are like a daughter of the house."

"You are very kind," replied Marion, touched by the evident sincerity of the words. "I am glad, too, to know at last some of my mother's kindred."

"I can't help wishing that you looked more like her," said Mrs. Dalton, returning wistfully to that point. "She was very lovely—though you—I suppose I need not tell you what you are. My dear"—and suddenly the elder woman stooped to kiss the younger—"I am sorry for you."

"I am sorry for you!" The words lingered on Marion's ear after her aunt's kindly presence had left the room and she stood alone, asking herself why she was so often met in this manner. Why was it that, even with her royal beauty, she had thus far encountered more of pity than of admiration? Why did all eyes that had looked on the sin and sorrow of earth regard her with compassion, and why had she heard so often in her old life that which was her first greeting in the new—"I am sorry for you"?

"Sorry!—for what?" The girl asked herself this with fiery and impatient disdain. What did they all mean? Why did this keynote of unknown misfortune or suffering meet her at every turn, like a shadow flung forward by the unborn future? Why did this refrain always ring in her ears? She was tired of it—so she said to herself with sudden passion,—and she would let the future prove whether or not their pity was misplaced.

She let down her magnificent hair as she thought this, and looked at herself in the mirror out of a burnished cloud. Not, however, as most beautiful women look at the fair image that smiles from those shadowy depths—not with the gratified gaze of self-admiration or the glance of conscious power, but with a criticism severe and stern enough to have banished all loveliness from a less perfect face; with a cool reckoning and appreciation, in which the innocent vanity of girlhood bore no part. And when this scrutiny was ended, the smile that came over her face spoke more of resolution than of pleasure.

She took up a comb then, and began arranging her hair. The task did not occupy her many minutes; for her deft fingers were very quick, and no one had ever accused her of caring for the arts of the toilet. On the contrary, she had always manifested a careless disregard of them, which puzzled her associates, and was by not a few set down to affectation. Now, when she had piled her hair on top of her head like a coronal of red gold, she proceeded to make her simple toilet, with scarcely another glance toward the mirror. It was soon completed, and she had been ready some time when a knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Helen's beaming face.

"So you are dressed?" she said. "I came to show you the way down. I would have come sooner, but, you know, there was so much to say."

"And to hear," added Marion. "I can imagine, though I do not know, what such a home-coming is. And what a lovely home you have, Helen!"

"You have hardly seen it yet," answered Helen. "Come and let me show you all over it."

It was certainly a spacious and pleasant house, built with the stately, honest solidity of the work of former generations, but with many modern additions which served to enhance its picturesqueness and comfort. Marion praised it with a sincerity that delighted Helen; and, having made a thorough exploration, they passed out of the wide lower hall into a veranda, which, as in most Southern houses, was at this hour the place of general rendezvous. Here a pretty dark-eyed girl came forward to meet them.

"I was introduced to you when you arrived, Miss Lynde," she said, "but there was such a hubbub I fancy you did not notice me, and I am glad to welcome you again. I feel as if Helen's cousin must be my cousin too."

"Helen's cousin is much obliged," said Marion. "You are Miss Morley, then?"

"I am the Netta of whom you have doubtless heard. But pray sit down. Are you not tired from your journey?"

"A little. It was so warm and dusty!" answered Marion. "But this seems a perfect place of rest," she added, as she sank on a lounge that had been placed just under the odorous shade of the vines which overran the front of the veranda. "I mean to indulge freely in the luxury of idleness here."

"I hope you will," said Helen. "But I wish that you felt sufficiently rested to come with me into the garden. I should like you to see how lovely it is."

"I wish that I did, but I don't. Pray go yourself, however. You must not let me begin my visit by being a bore to you. Miss Morley, pray take her along."

After some little demur, the two girls complied with her request, and with sincere satisfaction Marion watched them disappear down the garden paths. She was very fond of Helen, she told herself and certainly believed; but, none the less, a very moderate amount of Helen's society sufficed to content, and any more to weary her. Just now she felt particularly wearied, as if both mind and body had been on a strain; and, sinking back on the couch, with the vines breathing their rich perfume over her, she remained so still while the shades of twilight began to gather, that any one who discovered her would have had to look very closely.

This was presently proved; for the silence, which had lasted some time, was broken by a quick step—a step which passed across the veranda and entered the hall, where a ringing and hilarious voice soon made itself heard.

"Where is everybody?" it inquired. "Surely I am late enough! I thought they would all be down by this time."

"They've all been down ever so long, Frank," a child's shrill tones replied. "They are out in the garden—Helen and Netta and Cousin Marion."

"Oh, very good! Come along, Jock, and let us find them," said Mr. Frank Morley. "Has your cousin Paul been here yet?"

"No—not yet."

"Ah, better still! We are before him, then. I shall go and welcome Helen over again, and take a kiss before she can prevent it."

"Then she'll box your ears—I saw her do it once!" cried Jock, in glee. "Oh! yes; I'll come along with you, Frank."

The tall, lithe figure, followed by the smaller one, crossed the veranda again, and strode toward the garden, leaving Marion smiling to herself in her shady nook.

Ten minutes later another step—this time a more sedate one—sounded on the gravel. But keener eyes explored the veranda before their owner entered the house. Consequently they discovered the figure under the vines, and Marion was startled by a quiet voice which said:—

"What! all alone, Helen? I had not hoped for such good fortune—so soon."

CHAPTER II.

Probably the speaker had seldom been more surprised than when Marion rose quickly, and, the last glow from the west falling over her, he found himself face to face with a stranger.

Even to the most self-possessed there is something a little embarrassing when tender tones or caressing words are heard by ears for which they were not intended; and, although there was nothing specially significant in the letter of this speech, its spirit had been eloquent enough to make Mr. Paul Rathborne start with confusion when he discovered his mistake.

"I beg pardon," he said, a little hastily—"I did not observe—that is" (with a sudden grasp of self-possession), "I thought I was addressing my cousin. I suppose I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Lynde?"

"Yes," answered Marion. "And you, I presume, are Mr. Rathborne?"

He bowed. "I am glad to perceive that you have heard of me."

"Oh!" said Marion, "in knowing Helen, one knows all the people that make up her home circle. I assure you I feel intimately acquainted with yourself and all the Morleys, and the children—"

"And probably the horses and the dogs," he said as she paused. "I am aware of the comprehensiveness of Helen's affections."

"Her heart is large enough to hold all that she gives a place in it," remarked Marion.

"Oh! no doubt," said Mr. Rathborne. "But, perhaps, if one had one's choice, one would be flattered by more exclusiveness."

Marion glanced at him and thought, "It is evidently in your nature to want to monopolize." But she only said: "I do not think you have reason to complain of your place in Helen's regard."

"I have no thought of complaining," he replied; "I am very grateful for all the regard she is good enough to give me."

The humility of the words could not conceal an arrogance of tone, which did not escape the ear of the listener. At that moment she was as thoroughly convinced as ever afterward that this man perfectly understood how paramount was the place he held in Helen's regard.

"Helen's affection is something for which one may well be grateful," she observed, sincerely enough. "But do you not wish to find her? She is in the garden."

Mr. Rathborne did not stir. "If she is in the garden," he said, "she will no doubt come in presently. And I judge from sounds which I hear in that direction that she is not alone. If you do not object, I will remain here and wait for her."

"Object! Why should I object?" asked Marion. She reseated herself, and was not displeased that Mr. Rathborne drew forward a chair and also sat down. She was aware that he was, in a manner, engaged to Helen—in other words, that their positive engagement had only been deferred on account of Helen's youth; but the fact did not at all detract from the interest he had for her—the interest of a man with wider life and, presumably, wider thoughts than the school-girls who, up to this time, had formed her social atmosphere. It offended her, therefore, that when he spoke next it was in the tone of one addressing a school-girl.

"I suppose, Miss Lynde, that, like Helen, you were very much attached to the convent?"

"It is not at all safe to suppose that I am in any respect like Helen," she replied. "We are very good friends, but exceedingly different in character."

"And therefore in tastes?"

"That follows, does it not? Different characters must have different tastes."

"It certainly seems a natural inference. And so I am to presume that you were not attached to the convent?"

"That is going rather too far. I liked it better than any other school at which I ever was placed. But I am not fond of restraint and subjection; therefore I am glad that my school-days are over."

Mr. Rathborne smiled slightly. Even in the dusk he could see enough of the presence before him to judge that restraint and subjection would indeed be little likely to please this imperial-looking creature.

"I am to congratulate you, then," he said, "on the fact that your school-days are definitely over?"

"Yes, they are definitely over, and it remains now to be seen what schooling life holds for me."

"Certainly a singular girl this!" thought the man, who was well aware that most young ladies had little thought of what schooling life might hold for them. "If I may be permitted to prophesy," he said aloud, "I think that life has in store for you only pleasant experiences."

"That is very kind of you," answered Marion, with a mocking tone in her voice, which was very familiar to her associates; "but I don't know that I have any claim to special exemption from the usual lot of mankind; and certainly pleasant experiences are not the usual lot, unless everyone is very much mistaken."

"People are too much given to sitting down and moaning over the unpleasantness of life, when they might make it otherwise by taking matters into their own hands," said Mr. Rathborne. "But that requires a strong will."

"And something beside will, does it not?"

"Oh! of course the ability to seize opportunity, and make one's self master of it."

"That is what I should like," said Marion, speaking as if to herself: "to seize opportunity. But the opportunity must come in order to be seized."

"There is little doubt but that it will come to you," remarked her companion, more and more impressed.

How far the conversation might have progressed in this personal vein, into which it had so unexpectedly fallen, it is difficult to say; for a spark of congenial sympathy had been already struck between these two people, who a few minutes before had been absolute strangers to each other. But at this point Mrs. Dalton stepped out of the hall and came toward them.

"I thought I heard your voice, Paul," she said, as Rathborne rose to shake hands with her; "and I wondered to whom you were talking, since I knew the girls were in the garden. But this is Marion, is it not?"

"It is Marion," replied that young lady. "I did not go into the garden—I felt too tired,—and Mr. Rathborne found me here a few minutes ago."

"It is somewhat late for an introduction, then," said Mrs. Dalton, "since you have already made acquaintance."

"Not a very difficult task," observed Rathborne. "I have heard a good deal of Miss Lynde, and she was good enough to say that my name was not altogether unknown to her."

"Helen talks so much of her friends that they could hardly avoid knowing one another," resumed Mrs. Dalton. "But pray go and tell her, Paul, that it is time to come in to tea."

"With pleasure," said Mr. Rathborne, departing with an alacrity which seemed to imply that only politeness had prevented his going before.

At least so Mrs. Dalton interpreted the quickness of his step, as she looked after him for an instant, and then turned to Marion. "I suppose, my dear," she said, "that you have heard Helen speak of Paul very often?"

"Very often indeed," answered Marion.

"And you are probably aware that if I had not refused to allow her to bind herself while she was so young, they would be engaged?"

Marion signified that she had also heard this—exhaustively.

"The responsibilities of a parent are very great," said Mrs. Dalton, with a sigh. "I certainly have every reason to trust Paul, who has been as helpful as a son to me in all business matters since my husband's death—he is my nephew by marriage, you know—yet I hesitate when I think of trusting Helen's happiness to him. She is so very affectionate that I do not think she could be happy with any one who did not feel as warmly as herself. Now, Paul is very reserved in character and cold in manner. I fear that he would chill and wound her—after a while."

"But is it not a rule that people like best those who are most opposite to them in character?" asked Marion, whose interest in Helen's love-affair began to quicken a little since she had met its hero.

"I believe it is a general rule," replied Mrs. Dalton, dubiously; "but I distrust its particular application in this case. And, then, they are not of the same religion."

"Oh!" exclaimed Marion, carelessly, "that surely does not matter—with liberal people."

"It matters with Catholics," said Mrs. Dalton. "Although not a Catholic yourself, you ought to know that."

"I know that people who have always been Catholics feel so. But you, who were once a Protestant—I should think that you would be more broad."

"Converts are the last people to be broad in that respect," said Mrs. Dalton. "They have known too much of the bitterness of differing feeling on that subject. But you do not understand, so we will not discuss it. I forgot for a moment that you are separated from us in faith."

"I am separated from you because I do not hold your faith," said Marion, frankly; "but I am not separated because I hold any other. All religions are alike to me, except that I respect the Catholic most. But I could never belong to it."

"Never is a long day," observed Mrs. Dalton. "You do not know what light the future may hold for you. However, we will talk of this another time; for here come the garden party."

They came through the twilight as she spoke, the light dresses of the girls showing with pretty effect against the dark masses of shrubbery, and their gay young voices ringing out, with accompaniment of laughter, through the still air.

"Marion!—where is Marion?" cried Helen, as she reached the veranda. "Oh! there you are still, under the vines! Here is a greeting from the garden that you would not go to see."

It was a cluster of odorous roses—splendid jacqueminots—which fell into Marion's lap, and which she took up and pinned against her white dress. Their glowing color lent a fresh touch of brilliancy to her appearance when Paul Rathborne found himself opposite to her at the well-lighted tea-table. The twilight had revealed to him that she was handsome, but he had not been prepared for such beauty as now met and fascinated his gaze. He regarded her with a wonder which was as evident as his admiration, and not less flattering to her vanity. For Helen's confidences had enabled her to form a very correct idea of this cold, self-contained man; and she felt that to move him so much was no small earnest of her power to move others.

Meanwhile she glanced at him now and then with critical observation, seeing a keen face, with deep-set eyes under a brow more high than broad; a thin-lipped mouth, which did not smile readily; and a general air of reserve and power. It was a face not without attraction to the girl, whose own spirit was sufficiently ambitious and arrogant to recognize and respond to the signs of such a spirit in another. "He is a man who means to make his way in the world, and who will use poor little Helen as a stepping-stone," she thought. "A cold, supercilious, selfish man—the kind of man who despises women, I fancy. Let us see if he will despise me."

There was not much reason to suspect Mr. Rathborne of such presumption. Almost his first remark to Helen, when they were together after tea, was, "What a remarkable person your cousin seems to be!"

"Marion?" said Helen. "Yes, she is so remarkable that Claire and I have often said that she is made for some great destiny. She looks like an empress, does she not?"

Rathborne laughed. "She has a very imperial air, certainly," he said; "and she is strikingly beautiful. She might have the world at her feet if she had a fortune. But I suppose she has very little?"

"None at all, I think," answered Helen, simply. "And it has embittered her. She values money too highly."

"It is difficult to do that," said Rathborne, dryly; "and Miss Lynde knows what is fitted for her when she desires wealth. I never saw a woman who seemed more evidently born for it."

"I wish I could give her my fortune," said Helen, sincerely. "She hates poverty so much, while I would not at all mind being poor."

An echo of the wish shot through Rathborne's mind, but he only said, with one of his faint, flitting smiles: "My dear Helen, you are not exactly a judge of the poverty you have never tried. And, while it is very good of you to wish to give your cousin your fortune, there can be no doubt that with such a face she will not go through life without finding one."

Helen looked across the room at the beautiful face of which he spoke. In her heart no pang of envy stirred, only honest admiration as she said: "I knew you would admire her!"

"Admire her—yes," Paul answered; "one could hardly fail to do that. But I do not think I shall like her. I like amiable, gentle women, and I am very certain that not even you can say that Miss Lynde is amiable and gentle."

CHAPTER III.

"You have not told me yet, Marion, what you think of Paul," said Helen the next day.

The two girls were together in a handsome, airy parlor, through which the stream of family life had been flowing all morning, but from which it had now ebbed, leaving them alone. Helen, who had been flitting like a bird from one occupation, or attempt at occupation, to another, now threw herself into a chair by one of the low open windows, and looked at Marion, who was lying luxuriously on a couch near by, and for an hour past had not lifted her eyes from her book.

They were lifted now, however, and regarded the speaker quietly. "What do I think of Mr. Rathborne?" she asked. "My dear Helen, what can I possibly think of him on such short acquaintance, except that he is tall and good-looking, and appears to have a very good opinion of himself?"

"O Marion!"

"For all that I know, it may be an opinion based on excellent grounds, but it is undoubtedly the first thing about him that attracts one's attention."

"It is based on excellent grounds," said Helen, with some spirit. "Everyone who knows Paul admires and looks up to him."

"Not quite everyone," observed an unexpected voice, and through the window by which she sat Mr. Frank Morley stepped into the room. "I am sorry to come upon the scene with a contradiction," he said, as he took his cousin's hand; "but really, you know, Helen, that is too sweeping an assertion. I don't look up to Paul Rathborne."

"So much the worse for you, then," said Helen. "A boy like you could not do better."

"I think that a boy, even though he were like me, might do much better. He might look up to someone who was not so selfish and conceited."

A rose flame came into Helen's cheeks. "You are very rude as well as ill-natured," she answered in a low tone. "You have no right to say such things to me."

"I have never been told that there was any reason why I should not say them to you," replied the young man, significantly; "but I had no intention of making myself disagreeable. After all, the truth is not always to be told."

"It is not the truth," exclaimed Helen, with a flash of fire in her glance. "Paul is neither selfish nor conceited. But you never liked him, Frank—you know you never did."

"I never hesitated to confess it," said Frank; "but I regret having annoyed you, Helen. I did not think you would take my opinion of Mr. Rathborne so much to heart."

"It is not your opinion," responded Helen. "It is—it is the injustice!" And then, as if unwilling to trust herself further, she sprang up and left the room.

There was an awkward pause for a moment after her departure. Mr. Frank Morley began to whistle, but checked himself, with an apologetic glance at Marion, who, leaning back on the cushions of her couch, was faintly smiling.

"I have, as usual, put my foot into it," said the young man. "But I could not imagine that Helen would be so fiery. She used to laugh when I abused Paul."

"Did she?" asked Marion. "But, then, you know, there comes a time when one ceases to laugh; and if one likes a friend, one does not wish to hear him abused. That time seems to have arrived with her."

"Yes," said Morley, rather ruefully. "And the worst of it is that it looks as if she liked the fellow better than I imagined. I am awfully sorry for that."

"You evidently do not like him."

"I!—no indeed. As Helen remarked, I never liked him, but I like him less and less as time goes on."

"What is the matter with him?"

"Everything is the matter with him. He is as cold as a stone; he cares for nobody in the world but Paul Rathborne, and for nothing that does not advance that important person's interest. He is supercilious until one longs to knock him down; and so ambitious that he would walk over the body of his dearest friend—granting that he had such a thing—to advance himself in life one inch."

"Altogether a very charming character!" remarked Marion. "It is certain that you are not the dearest friend over whose body he would walk."

Young Morley laughed. "No," he said, frankly. "I would walk over his with a good deal of pleasure; but he will never walk over mine, if I can help it. Though he may, for all that," he added, after an instant; "for he is so sharp that one can never tell what he is up to, until it is too late to frustrate him."

"This is very interesting," said Marion. "It is like reading a novel to hear a character analyzed in so masterly a manner."

Morley colored. He was too shrewd not to know that she was laughing at him; but while the fact was sufficiently evident, it was not exactly evident how best to show his appreciation of it. After a moment he spoke in a tone which had a little offense in it:—

"I don't suppose the subject interests you, so I ought to beg pardon for dwelling on it. But I only meant to explain why Helen was vexed."

"And now you are vexed," observed Marion. "What have I done? I assure you I was in earnest in saying I was interested in your analysis of Mr. Rathborne's character."

"It sounded more as if you were satirical," said Morley. "And I was not trying to analyze his character: I was only answering your questions about it."

"Quite true, but those questions led to your analyzing it—and so successfully, too, that I am going to ask another. Tell me if you think he is much attached to Helen?"

A sudden cloud came over the young man's face, and his eyes seemed to darken. "I do not think he is attached to her at all," he replied, bluntly. "Or, if that is saying too much (for everyone must be attached to Helen), I do not believe he would wish to marry her but for her fortune."

"Well," said Marion, philosophically, "I suppose it is the ordinary fate of rich women to be married for their money. And, after all, they do not seem to mind it: they appear happy enough."

"Helen would never be happy," said Frank Morley, impetuously.

"Do not be sure of that," responded the young cynic on the couch. "There is a French proverb, you know, which says: 'Il y a toujours l'un qui baisse et l'un qui tend la joue.' Helen would play the active part in that to perfection."

The young man looked at her with something of indignation. "You may consider yourself a friend of Helen's," he remarked, "but you certainly do not understand her."

"No?" said Marion, smiling. "Then perhaps you will enlighten me, as you have about Mr. Rathborne. I am probably deficient in penetration."

Morley made a gallant effort not to be betrayed into boyish petulance, and succeeded sufficiently to say, with a dignity which amused his tormentor:—

"I am sure that penetration is the last thing you are deficient in, Miss Lynde. But you do not credit others with enough of the quality. I, at least, know when I am laughed at. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and make my peace with Helen."

He walked out of the room, holding his slim, young figure very erect; and Marion looked after him with a glance of mingled amusement and approval.

"Very well done, Mr. Morley!" she said to herself. "You are an uncommonly nice boy, with uncommonly clear reasons for your opinions. Ten years hence you may be a very agreeable man. As for Mr. Rathborne, your account of him agrees entirely with my own impressions. I really do possess a little penetration, after all."

Then she took up her novel again, and settled back among the sofa-cushions with an air of comfort. At that moment her only desire was that she might not be disturbed for a reasonable length of time. The people in the book interested her much more than the people who surrounded her in life. At this period of her existence she was wrapped in a ruthless egotism, which made all human beings shadows to her, unless they touched her interest. It was not yet apparent whether any of those who were now about her would touch her interest; and until that fact was demonstrated, she troubled herself very little about them.

A quarter of an hour, perhaps, had passed without any one appearing to disturb her quiet, when, through the same window by which young Morley had entered, another presence stepped into the room. It was Rathborne, who looked around, met Marion's eyes, and came toward her with a pleased expression.

"It seems to me my good fortune to find you always alone, Miss Lynde," he observed.

"And it seems to be the custom here that visitors shall appear in the most unexpected and informal manner," said Marion. "Do they always come in unannounced, by way of the window?"

"Oh, no! Here, as elsewhere, most visitors enter decorously by way of the door. But I have long been as familiarly intimate in this house as if it were my home, and I expected to find the family assembled."

"The family has been assembled, but the different members have been called away by one thing or another, until only I remain."

"You appear to be fond of solitude."

"Is not that a wide conclusion to draw from the fact that you have found me twice alone?"

"Discerning people can draw wide conclusions from slight indications. On each occasion a person sociably inclined would not have been left alone."

"Generally speaking, I am not very sociably inclined, I suppose; but that does not mean that I object to society—when it pleases me."

"I judge that you are not very easily pleased," answered Rathborne, regarding the face which he found even more beautiful than his recollection had painted it.

She looked at him with a smile so brilliant that it almost startled him. "Are you trying to give me another proof of your discernment?" she asked. "If so, you will be gratified to hear that you are right. I am not easily pleased—as a rule. I suppose people are much happier who are not so 'difficult,' as my French teacher used to call me. There is Helen, for instance; she likes everything and everybody, and she is certainly happier than I am."

"But, then, unfortunately it is not very flattering to the vanity when one pleases a person who is so easily pleased."

Marion lifted her eyebrows with a mocking expression. "But why should one's vanity be flattered?" she asked. "It is not good for one that it should be."

"Not good perhaps, but very pleasant," replied Mr. Rathborne; "and I am, like yourself, somewhat 'difficult,' and hard to please."

"Ah! then you can sympathize with me. It is not an agreeable disposition to possess."

"I can sympathize with you on a good many points—or at least so I have the presumption to fancy," he said. "There is an instinct that tells one these things. Even in our brief conversation yesterday evening I felt as if a sympathetic understanding was established between us. It seemed to me that we were likely to look at many things in the same light."

It is hardly necessary to observe that, considering what she had recently heard of the speaker's character, and hence of his probable way of looking at things, Marion should not have been very much flattered by this. But, as a matter of fact, she was flattered. She had as strong a belief in her own powers, as strong a determination to make events and people serve her ends, as Mr. Rathborne himself possessed. But her powers were untried, her ability to impress people untested; and this first proof that she was remarkable—that even this cold, selfish man recognized in her something altogether uncommon—something allied to his own ambitious spirit,—was like wine to her self-esteem. She thought that here was material on which she might try whatever power she had, without fear of doing mischief,—material certain to look after itself and its own interest in any event, and with which no unpleasant results could be feared.

To do her justice, Marion wanted only to make a mental impression: to extort admiration for her unusual gifts of mind and character from this man, who, she knew instinctively, was not easily moved to admiration or interest. If she forced it from him, then she might be sure that it would be easy to win it from others. These thoughts were not absolutely formulated in her mind at this moment, but they were impressed on her consciousness sufficiently to make her reply:—

"You flatter me by saying so; for you are a man who knows the world, and I was yesterday a school-girl. It would be strange, then, if we did see things in the same light."

"It is difficult to realize that you were yesterday—or ever—a school-girl," said Rathborne, leaning back and looking at her intently from under his dark brows.

"That does not sound very flattering," she replied, with a laugh; and yet in her heart she knew that it was just the kind of flattery she desired.

"I am not trying to flatter you," he replied. "I am telling you exactly how you impress me. And I do not see how, in the name of all that is wonderful, you ever became what you are in that convent from which you come."

A swift shade passed over Marion's face. "You must not blame or credit the convent with what I am," she said. "If I had gone there earlier, I might be a very different person. But my character and disposition were formed when I went there, two years ago; and the influences of the place could not change me, though they often made me feel as if change would be desirable."

"They made you feel a mistake, then," remarked her companion, with emphasis. "Change in you would not be desirable. You are—"

But Marion was not destined to hear just then what she was. Steps and voices came across the hall; Helen's laugh sounded, and the next moment Helen herself appeared in the doorway, followed by Frank Morley, who had apparently succeeded in making his peace.

CHAPTER IV.

When Sunday came, Helen said to her cousin, rather wistfully: "Will you go to church with us to-day, Marion?"

"Not to-day, I believe, if you will excuse me," answered Marion. "If I go anywhere—which is doubtful—I suppose it ought to be to the church I was brought up in."

"I thought you always said at the convent how much you preferred Catholic services," said Helen, in a disappointed tone.

"Well, at the convent, you see, one had not much choice," replied the other, laughing; "and, then, the services were charming there—so poetical and beautiful. That chapel was a picture in itself. But, from the outward appearance of your church here, I should not judge that it possessed much inward beauty."

"No," said Helen, reluctantly, "it has not much beauty; but, then, the Mass is everywhere the same, you know."

"For those who believe in it, very likely," was the careless rejoinder. "But I am an outsider. I believe only in what I see; and when I see beautiful ceremonies, I enjoy them for their beauty."

"It is just as well, in that case, that you should not go with us, my dear," said Mrs. Dalton, from the head of the table—for this conversation took place at breakfast. "Ours is a very plain little chapel, the congregation being small and poor. If you are in search of beautiful ceremonies, the Episcopal church will be more likely to gratify you. They have a new Ritualistic clergyman there, who has introduced many new customs, I hear."

"I see no particular reason why I should go anywhere," observed Marion, truthfully. "It is a very pleasant day for staying at home."

But she was not destined to stay at home on this particular Sunday, which was the beginning of a change in her life. After breakfast, while they were enjoying the freshness of the summer morning on the veranda, and before any chime of bells yet filled the air, Miss Morley made her appearance, fully dressed for church parade; and, after a general greeting, said to Marion:—

"I have come to inquire if you would like to go to church with me this morning, Miss Lynde. I have heard Helen say that you are not a Roman Catholic."

"I am not anything at all," answered Marion; "and I confess that I do not, as a rule, see the need of church-going; but, since it is such a pleasant day, and you are so kind as to come, Miss Morley,—may I ask what church you attend?"

"Oh, Netta is an Episcopalian!" interposed Helen. "She will take you to a handsome church, filled with well-dressed people, where you will have pretty ceremonies and nice music to amuse you."

"Satire is not in your style, Helen," said Marion, putting out her hand to give a soft pinch to the round arm near her. "But, since you give such an attractive description, I believe I will go with Miss Morley."

"Then we have not much time to spare," said that young lady, with a glance at her dress, as a concert of bells suddenly burst out.

"Oh, I will be ready in a few minutes!" exclaimed Marion, smiling.

Her simple toilet was soon made, yet its very simplicity enhanced the striking character of her beauty; and when she followed Miss Morley up the softly-carpeted aisle of the Episcopal church, every eye turned on her, and everyone wondered who she could be. To herself, the atmosphere which surrounded her was very agreeable, speaking as it did of wealth and refined tastes. Beautiful architectural forms, polished woods, stained glass, a pretty procession; sweet, clear voices singing to the rich roll of a fine organ; and a congregation which gave the impression of belonging altogether to the favored classes of society,—these things she liked, independently of any religious association or meaning.

Indeed, as a religious ceremony, the service seemed to Marion very much of a failure, so recently had she witnessed the divine Reality of worship. She missed the thrill of awe which had come even to her when the Sacred Host was lifted up to heaven in the Mass; and her keen, unprejudiced mind realized how entirely what she now saw was only the mutilated remnant of an older and grander ritual. "It is a pity that the Catholic religion is so exacting, and that so many common people belong to it," she thought; "for it is the only one with any reality about it, or any claim to one's respect."

Nobody would have suspected these reflections, however, from her outward deportment. She went through the service decorously, and listened with exemplary attention to the sermon, which was by no means contemptible as a literary effort. Her beautiful face—conspicuously placed in one of the front pews—somewhat distracted the attention of the young clergyman, and he found himself now and again looking from his MS. to meet the large, dark eyes fixed so steadily on him. But Marion herself was distracted by no one, although she was aware of the appearance and manner of everybody in her immediate neighborhood.

Among the rest, she observed a lady who sat near, and more than once glanced inquiringly toward her; a lady of specially distinguished and fashionable appearance. "She does not belong to Scarborough," thought Marion, noticing (without appearing to do so) some of the details of her costume. And her conclusion she soon found was correct. When the services were over, and the congregation, passing out of church, interchanged salutations as they went, Miss Morley acknowledged a greeting from this lady; and Marion, as they walked on, said: "Who is that handsome and elegant woman?"

"Mrs. Singleton," was the reply. "She is very handsome and very elegant, is she not? But she does not live in Scarborough; she is here only for the summer."

"I felt sure of that," thought Marion—though she had too much tact to say so. "Who is she?—where does she come from?" she asked.

"She is one of the Singletons," answered Netta—"at least her husband is,—and you know who they are. They appear to have ample means, and live in a great many places. She has just returned from Europe."

"And why has she come to Scarborough?" inquired Marion, in a tone not altogether flattering to that place.

"Well, chiefly, I believe, because the climate here agrees wonderfully with an old gentleman who is her husband's uncle, to whom they seem to devote themselves."

"Is he wealthy?" asked Marion, with unconscious cynicism.

"Oh, very!" replied Netta, with simplicity; "immensely rich, I believe, and has no children; so he lives with the Singletons, or they live with him."

"The last most likely," said Marion, whose knowledge of life was largely drawn from its seamy side.

The conversation ended here, and she thought no more of it. But on the evening of the next day Miss Morley came into the drawing room where the family group were assembled after tea, and, turning to Marion, said:—

"Do you remember our speaking of Mrs. Singleton as we came from church yesterday, Miss Lynde? She seems to have been as much impressed by you as you were by her. I met her on the street this morning, and she stopped me to ask who you were. I suppose I must not venture to repeat all that she said of your appearance, but I may tell you that she has some connections named Lynde, and that she is very curious to know if you belong to them."

"I am sorry that I can not satisfy her," said Marion, who showed no signs of being as flattered as she really was. "Family genealogies have never interested me. If my uncle were here now, he could tell her all that she wished to know."

"So that elegant Mrs. Singleton is in Scarborough again this summer!" cried Helen, with interest. "Is the same old gentleman with her, and do they still keep up an establishment with so much style?"

"Oh, yes!" her cousin answered. "They have taken the Norton House for the summer, and have brought a beautiful carriage and horses, and servants, with them. Not many people have seen the old gentleman yet. I hear that he is feebler than he was last year."

"Then no doubt Mrs. Singleton still laments touchingly how sad it is for old people—for their own sakes entirely!—when they live too long," said Paul Rathborne, who was present as usual.

"At least she does not devote much of her time and attention to him," responded Mrs. Dalton, "unless report greatly belies her."

"Why should she?" said Rathborne. "He has an expensive, highly-trained nurse for his special service, besides a staff of servants. What could she do for him, except worry him? Oh, no: it is not on account of any demand upon her time or attention that she thinks he lives too long, but because he keeps his fortune in his own hands, and will until death relaxes his hold of it."

"How awful," exclaimed Helen, with a shudder, "to want anybody to die! I cannot believe that Mrs. Singleton does. She seems so kind and pleasant."

"And you think everyone must be kind and pleasant who seems so?" said Rathborne, with a covert sneer. "My dear Helen, it will not do to judge the world by yourself."

"Why not?" asked Helen, innocently. "Why should I not believe that others are honest and sincere as well as myself?"

"Well, really there does not seem any reason on the surface, except that experience proves it otherwise," he answered, with a laugh.

"I hope it may be long before experience proves it to me," said Helen. "I can not bear to think badly of people. It seems to me that it would break my heart to be forced to think badly of any one for whom I cared."

If one heart present felt a twinge of compunction at those words, there was no sign of it; but Mrs. Dalton looked at her daughter with a sudden glance of something like apprehension.

"You should not talk in such a way, Helen," she said. "A broken heart is not a thing of which to speak lightly."

"I did not intend to speak lightly," answered Helen. "I meant what I said very seriously. I do not think I could bear it."

"That is foolish," continued her mother. "We must bear whatever God sends."

"I do not think Helen will ever have to bear a broken heart, or anything like it," observed Marion. "I am very certain that she is made for happy fortune."

"No one in the world, who lives for any length of time, can know unbrokenly happy fortune," said Mrs. Dalton, gravely. "But I do not think it well to discuss such personal subjects."

"Then we will discuss the rich old man who has a highly-trained nurse and a staff of servants," said Marion, laughingly. "Tell me"—turning to Rathborne—"what is his name?"

"Singleton," replied that gentleman. "Have you never heard of him? He is a very rich man; and Tom Singleton—the husband of the lady you have seen—hopes to inherit his wealth."

"He is his nearest relative?"

"Oh, I presume there are other nieces and nephews, but he is a favorite of the old man."

"Have I not heard something of a disowned son?" asked Mrs. Dalton.

"A disowned son!" repeated Marion. "I did not know that people out of novels—and even in novels it has gone out of fashion—ever disowned their sons now."

"As I have heard the story," said Rathborne, "it is more a case of the son disowning the father. He refused to comply with his father's wishes in any respect, and finally broke away and left home, going off to South America, I believe. He has not been heard of for a considerable number of years, and Tom Singleton says there is every reason to believe him dead. Of course the wish is father to the thought with him, but others have told me the same thing."

"Perhaps his father drove him away by harshness, and remorse is what is the matter with him," said Netta Morley, solemnly.

Rathborne laughed. "From my knowledge of old Mr. Singleton," he replied, "I should not judge that remorse preyed upon him to any great extent. The son, I have been told, was a wild, rebellious youth, whom it was impossible to control—one of those unfortunate human beings who seem born to go wrong, and whom no influence can restrain."

"Where was the poor boy's mother?" asked Mrs. Dalton.

"She died when he was very young. But, with all due deference to the popular idea of a mother's influence, I think we see many cases in which it fails altogether."

"Yes," said Mrs. Dalton. "But even if her influence fails, her patience is more long-suffering than that of any one else, and her love is more enduring. Perhaps this boy might not have been lost if his mother had lived."

"If we begin with 'perhaps' we may imagine anything we please," remarked Rathborne, in atone which Marion had learned to understand as expressing contempt for the opinion advanced.

"Without indulging in any imagination at all, so much as is known of the Singletons is very interesting indeed," she said, in her clear, fluent voice. "If I see any of them, I shall look at them with much more attention from having heard this romantic story of a lost son and a great fortune."

"I think you are very likely to see Mrs. Singleton," observed Netta. "She spoke as if she desired to make your acquaintance."

"That is a great compliment—from her," said Helen. "What an impression you must have made, Marion!"

CHAPTER V.

Events soon proved that Helen was right in saying that Marion must have made an impression upon Mrs. Singleton. A few days later that lady's card was brought to Mrs. Dalton, who regarded it with mild surprise, saying, "Why, I have not called on her since her arrival this summer!"

"But you called on her last summer," said Helen; "and I suppose she has some reason for coming without waiting for you to make another formal visit. Pray find out what it is."

It was not at all difficult to discover Mrs. Singleton's reason for the visit. She declared it frankly and at once. "I hear that you have your charming daughter at home, Mrs. Dalton," she said; "and, knowing her accomplishments, I want to secure her aid for some musical evenings I am anxious to inaugurate. Mr. Singleton—my husband's uncle—finds almost his only pleasure in music; so I desire very much that these evenings shall be a success. Do you think Miss Morley will assist me?"

"I have no doubt she will be very glad to do so," answered Mrs. Dalton.

"I am delighted to hear it. And I am told that a very striking-looking young lady, whom I saw in church with Miss Netta Morley last Sunday, is your niece. Has she, also, taste and talent for music?"

"Oh! yes; she has a finer voice than Helen," said Mrs. Dalton, "and sings much better."

"How very charming for me!" cried Mrs. Singleton. "May I have the pleasure of seeing the young ladies? I should like to have their definite promise to help me."

The young ladies were summoned, and very readily gave the promise asked of them. They would be delighted, they said, to assist to the full extent of their musical abilities. "And when," Helen asked, "will the evenings begin?"

"Oh! at once," Mrs. Singleton replied. "On every Wednesday I hope to gather all the musical talent of Scarborough into my drawing-room. I shall send out my cards immediately to that effect. You don't know, Miss Lynde,"—turning to Marion—"how pleased I am to find unexpectedly such an addition as I am sure you will prove."

Marion smiled. "You are very kind," she said; "but I fear you are taking too much for granted. I am not a good musician. I have never had industry enough. Helen plays much better than I do."

"Oh, but, Marion, your voice is so fine!" cried Helen. "And everyone likes singing best."

"I do, I confess," said Mrs. Singleton. "And so, I think, does my uncle. I have no doubt that you sing well, Miss Lynde."

"That is kind of you again," responded Marion; "but I must warn you that Helen is not altogether a trustworthy witness. She always thinks well of what her friends do, and poorly of what she does herself."

"I am willing to wait and let Mrs. Singleton decide whether or not I think too well of what you do," observed Helen, with a gay little nod.

"Mrs. Singleton has no doubt what her decision will be," said that lady. "Meanwhile, Miss Lynde, I wonder if we are not related in some way? I am very certain that the Singletons have connections of your name, and I fancy it must be your family."

"It is likely," answered Marion; "but matters of pedigree and relationship have never interested me sufficiently for me to know much about them. I regret that fact now," she continued, with unusual graciousness; for she felt that she would not be sorry to be able to claim relationship with people of such social position as these were.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Singleton, "my uncle will know all about it, I am sure. Like most people of the old school, he thinks a great deal of such things. And I hope I may prove right in my conjecture," she added, as she rose to take leave.

"What an impression you must have made upon her, Marion!" cried Helen, as soon as they were alone. "Do you know that she is usually the most supercilious woman, and so haughty that the idea of her claiming relationship with any ordinary person seems incredible!"

"Do you consider me an ordinary person?" asked Marion, laughing, as she walked toward a mirror. "I am exceedingly obliged to you."

"You know that I consider you a most extraordinary person," answered Helen, with emphasis; "but Mrs. Singleton does not know yet what you are in yourself, and—and you are not rich or—"

"Distinguished in any way," said Marion, as she paused. "There is no doubt of that. As far as the outward accidents of life go, I am a very insignificant person. But I shall not be so always, Helen. I am sure of that; and people who know the world seem to have an instinct of it also."

Helen looked at the fair face which, with such an air of conscious power, regarded itself in the mirror. To her this ambition belonged to the order of inexplicable things; yet she had a belief that it was natural enough in Marion, and that it was fully justified by gifts which she acknowledged without defining.

"No one could know you and not be sure of it," she said, in answer to the last speech. "Of course you will fill some great place in the world—we settled that long ago. But I do think it strange that Mrs. Singleton should recognize how remarkable you are—so soon."

"Perhaps it is an indication that other people will recognize it too," replied Marion, with a smile; while she said to herself that one other person had recognized it already.

And, indeed, the recognition of that person had by this time become sufficiently evident to everyone. In the innocence of her heart, Helen rejoiced that her hero and oracle agreed with her in admiring the cousin whom she admired so much. "I knew how it would be!" she said to him, triumphantly. "You might be critical about other people, but I knew you must acknowledge that Marion is beyond criticism."

"That, however, is just what I don't acknowledge," Rathborne answered, laughingly. "Miss Lynde is by no means beyond criticism; she is only a beautiful and clever young lady, who has clearly determined to do the best for herself without much regard for others."

"Marion has never been taught or accustomed to think of others," said gentle Helen. "But I do not think she would harm any one for her own advantage."

"Oh! no; she would only quietly walk over the person who was unlucky enough to get in her way," remarked Rathborne. "And it is not I who would blame her for that."

Helen looked at him reproachfully. "Now you are doing yourself injustice," she said. "I understand that you do not mean anything of the kind, but such remarks make others think badly of you."

"No doubt," he replied, carelessly; "but, my dear Helen, there is nothing in the world of less importance to me than what others—the class of others you mean—think of me."

"But it is of great importance to me," said Helen. "I cannot bear that you should be misjudged by any one."

He laughed—people were right who said of Rathborne that he had not a pleasant laugh—as he replied, "Who can say when one is misjudged? Don't trouble yourself about that. As long as you are satisfied with me, I can snap my fingers at the rest of the world."

"You know how well I am satisfied," said Helen.

"Yes, I know," he answered, with a short thrill of compunction. "I am not all you think me, Helen. The 'others,' whose opinion makes you indignant, are nearer right than you are, if the truth were known, I suspect."

"You shall not say such things!" cried Helen. "There is nothing I could want changed in you, except"—her face fell a little—"except your religion. If you were only a Catholic I should be perfectly happy."

Rathborne smiled a little, as one would at the folly of a child. "I a Catholic!" he said. "My imagination is not strong enough to fancy that. No, my dear little Helen; you must be content with me as I am."

"Have you read the book I gave you—which you promised to read?" asked Helen, wistfully.

"I glanced into it—because I promised you," he answered; "but I found little of interest, and nothing to change my convictions. Do not indulge the hope that they ever will be changed. Let us understand each other on that point from the first. You are at liberty to believe and practice what you like, and I claim the same liberty for myself. Is not that just?"

"I—suppose so," answered Helen, whose forte was not controversy, and whose eyes were full of tears. "But surely you wish to believe and practice the truth?"

Rathborne shrugged his shoulders. "What is truth?" he said. "There is ancient and high authority for that question, and I don't know that it has ever been answered satisfactorily. I shall not endeavor to begin to answer it. And I shall not take an answer from the lips of a priest. Now let us change the subject."

The subject was changed, but poor Helen's heart was heavier than before it was begun. Whenever she did not talk to Rathborne on the subject of religion, she indulged a hope of his conversion, founded on her own ardent desire; but whenever she timidly opened the subject, she felt the hopelessness of moving this nature so deeply rooted in self-opinion, spiritual indifference, and worldly interests. At such times her poor little heart had its first taste of bitterness of life,—that bitterness which is so largely made up of the jarring of different natures and of irreconcilable desires.

Meanwhile some irreconcilable desires had begun to disturb the even current of Rathborne's carefully-planned life. For years he had seen very clearly what he meant to do—first to marry Helen, in order to secure the financial independence which her fortune would give; and then to climb, by certain well-marked steps, the ladder of professional and political eminence. He had never hesitated or wavered for an instant in this plan, neither had any obstacle arisen in his way. Helen had yielded to his influence, her mother's opposition was easily overcome, his professional success was all that he could desire, and already he was known as a man certain to gain the coveted prizes of public life.

But now into this well-ordered and orderly existence a distraction came. A beautiful, imperious, ambitious woman suddenly appeared in his path, and the strongest temptation of his life assailed him—the temptation to give up Helen and her fortune for Marion and Marion's striking gifts. "What might not a man accomplish with such a brilliant and ambitious spirit to aid his own ambition!" he said to himself, and so felt the temptation grow daily stronger. Yet he was well aware that in giving up Helen, he would give up more than her affection (which he did not count at all), and her fortune (which he counted very heavily): he would give up also a large and influential family connection, and the respect of every person of his acquaintance whose respect was worth most to him. He felt, however, that he might make up his mind to the last, if it were all; for he was too cynical and had too thorough a knowledge of the world not to know that people do not long remember anything to the disadvantage of a successful man. But to resign Helen's fortune, after the careful work of years to secure it, was something more difficult to him; and he had by no means made up his mind to do so when the above conversation took place.

It was the day of Mrs. Singleton's musicale; and presently Rathborne, who found conversation tiresome to maintain, said as he rose to go: "Shall I accompany you this evening? Of course I have had a card like everyone else."

"Oh! yes; come by all means," replied Helen. "Mamma is going with us, and Netta and Frank are to call by; but it is always pleasant to have you."

"It is not pleasant to me, however, to form one of a caravan," he said, with some impatience. "If I am to accompany you, can you not dispense with Miss Morley and her brother?"

"I hardly like to tell them not to come; and why should you object to them? It is pleasant for us all to go together."

"Do you think so?" said Rathborne, with the sneer which came so readily to his lip. Some words of Marion's recurred to his mind. "Helen is so gregarious and so easily pleased," that young lady had said, "that I think she would like to live always with a mob of people." But for the memory of this speech he might not have felt so irritated with a harmless and amiable love of companionship; but the contempt which dictated the words found a ready echo in his own mind.

"If your cousins are going to accompany you, there is no need for me," he observed; "so I will content myself with meeting you at Mrs. Singleton's. Good-morning!"

"Oh, I am sorry!" said Helen, with quick regret. "Netta and Frank would think it very strange, else I would send and ask them not to come—"

"Not on my account, I beg," responded Rathborne. "I am very well satisfied with matters as they are. It gives me the opportunity of choosing my own time to appear."

"Don't be too late," said Helen. "You know that Marion and I are both going to sing; and Marion, I am sure, will do her best."

"And you also, I hope."

She shook her head. "I am not like Marion. A public performance unnerves me, but it always puts her at her best. You will hear to-night how much better she will sing for a number of people than she has ever sung for a small circle."

"I shall certainly hear," said Rathborne. "Tell Miss Lynde that I am preparing myself to be electrified."

Perhaps he was aware in uttering these words that Miss Lynde had appeared in the open door behind him. At least there was no surprise on his face, but a great deal of satisfaction, when she came forward, saying:—

"And why, pray, Mr. Rathborne, should you be preparing yourself to be electrified?"

"Because Helen has just been telling me how much you are inspired by an audience," he answered; "and you are to have all Scarborough for your audience."

She made a gesture of indifference. "Give me credit," she said, "for caring a little more for the quality than the mere quantity of appreciation. 'All Scarborough' does not mean a great deal to me, I assure you."

"Such as it is, though, it will be at your feet," he said. "Do not scorn it."

"I shall certainly wait until it is at my feet to begin to do so," she answered, with a laugh.

"It is not good policy to scorn even that which is at your feet," he said. "You may need it some day."

"Be sure that I have no inclination to scorn any kindness that comes in my way," she observed, quickly. "You do me injustice if you believe me capable of that."

"Then you will not scorn your audience to-night," he answered; "for I am sure you will meet nothing but kindness from it."

CHAPTER VI.

Never was a prophecy better fulfilled than that of Rathborne; for no one of the large company assembled in Mrs. Singleton's spacious drawing-room but felt prepared to admire and approve the beautiful young stranger, who was led to the piano by her host when the musical programme was about half over. Everybody had an instinct that the star of the evening had now appeared—that one who looked so proud and confident was not likely to entertain them with a mediocre performance. And, indeed, Marion, who had professed to scorn "all Scarborough," was sufficiently inspired by her audience to feel capable of doing her best. As the first notes of the accompaniment were struck, she threw back her head like one who answers to a challenge; and when she opened her lips such a tide of melody rose, such crystal-clear notes, such a flood of pure, sweet sound, that even the lowest undertone of conversation stopped, and people held their breath to listen.

Rathborne, who had been late in arriving, and who stood just outside one of the open windows, conveniently sheltered from observation, smiled to himself as he watched the scene within. It was one which gave him as much pleasure as his nature was capable of feeling. That beautiful, stately figure beside the piano, with its regal bearing and crown of red-gold hair, deserved to be the center of all attention; and suited his own taste so exactly that he did not even perceive Helen's sweet, smiling face near by. It did not surprise him that Marion sang as he had never heard her sing before. He had read her character accurately enough, by the light of his own, to feel sure that she would never fail when occasion called for display.

His glance swept around the apartment, taking in the expressions of the various faces, and finally fastening on one that was partly sheltered behind a curtain at the end of the room. This curtain fell between the drawing-room and a smaller apartment opening from it. Now and then during the course of the evening a few of the oldest and most distinguished of Mrs. Singleton's guests were admitted to the smaller apartment, where it was understood that "old Mr. Singleton" was established to listen to the music at his ease. It must have been very much at his ease that he listened; for he had given no sign of his presence or appreciation until now, when—as if Marion's clear, ringing notes had been a spell—Rathborne observed at the opening of the curtain a thin face, with a high, aquiline nose and white moustache.

Mrs. Singleton also observed it; and as soon as the song was ended, leaving others to crowd around the singer and express their admiration, she walked to the curtained arch and exchanged a few words with the person sheltered behind it. Then, turning, she crossed the room and deftly made her way to Marion's side.

"My dear Miss Lynde," she exclaimed, "what a pleasure you have given us! What a delight to hear such a voice as yours! My uncle is charmed, and he begs that you will sing again. Of course we all beg that you will, but I give his request first, because it is a very great compliment—from him."

It was certainly a compliment which he had paid no one else; and Marion smiled with a sense of triumph. She preserved due modesty of manner and appearance, however, as she said: "I am exceedingly glad that I have been able to give pleasure to Mr. Singleton; perhaps there is some special song that he would like to hear?"

"Oh! I am sure he will like to hear anything that you sing," replied Mrs. Singleton, who did not wish to delay the amusement of the evening long enough to make inquiry.

So Marion sang again, with increased self-confidence and success; and the thin, keen face appeared again at the opening of the curtains, as if looking were no less a pleasure than listening.

But, this song over, Mrs. Singleton was too wise a hostess to encourage any request for a third. "We must not ask too much of Miss Lynde's kindness," she said. "Later in the evening, perhaps she will sing for us again; and we must be reasonable. Miss Royston is going to play for us now."

Miss Royston, a tall, angular young lady, whose elbows seemed unduly developed, took her seat on the piano-stool, struck a few crashing cords, and began a sonata. Being fresh from a conservatory of music, and having a severely classical taste, she was understood to be a very fine musician—a fact taken on trust by most of those who composed her present audience; but very soon a conversational murmur began to be heard; those who were near windows slipped out on the veranda "to enjoy the cool air while they listened," and there was no longer any glimpse of the aquiline nose and white moustache at the opening of the portières.

Marion, who had not been conscious of this brief, partial appearance of the invalid recluse, for whose amusement the entertainment had been arranged, whispered to Helen, by whom she sat down: "I wonder how Mr. Singleton likes this?"

"Not as well as your singing, I am sure," answered Helen, in the same tone; "for all the time you were singing he was looking at you from behind those curtains yonder."

"Was he indeed?" said Marion. She looked at the now closed, unresponsive curtains with a quick glance of interest. "What does he look like? I wish I had seen him."

"When you sing again, glance over there and you will certainly be gratified," said Helen. "But here comes Paul at last. He has missed your singing; is not that too bad?"

"I doubt very much if he considers it so," replied Marion. "He has heard me several times and never expressed any particular pleasure, that I remember."

"That is Paul's way," said Helen, eagerly. "It is hard to tell what he feels by what he expresses. He admires your voice very much. I am sure of that."

"What is it you are so sure of, Helen?" asked Rathborne, who had drawn near enough to hear the last words through the crash of the piano.

"That you are very sorry not to have heard Marion's singing," answered Helen, looking up into his face with a smile.

"I should certainly have been very sorry if I had not heard it," he said; "but, as it happens, I had that pleasure. And it was just as I expected," he added, turning to Marion. "You sang as I never heard you sing before. An audience inspires you—an occasion calls forth all your power."

She laughed softly. "Perhaps it was not the audience or the occasion so much as the consciousness of Mr. Singleton's presence, and a desire to evoke some sign of interest from a critic who buries himself in silence behind drawn curtains."

"Well, if so, you evoked it. I congratulate you upon that."

"Helen was just telling me that he vouchsafed a glimpse of himself during my song. I wish I had seen him. I have a curiosity to know what he is like."

"Like a very ordinary old man," observed Rathborne, carelessly. "But here comes Mrs. Singleton—to tell us, perhaps, that we should not be talking while the music is going on."

So far from that, Mrs. Singleton began at once to talk herself, in a discreetly lowered tone. "Miss Lynde," she said, "I hope you have no objection to making the acquaintance of my uncle? He has asked me to bring you in to see him. He is an old man, you know, and an invalid, so you will excuse his not coming to see you."

"I shall be delighted to go to him," answered Marion, with ready courtesy and grace.

So the entire company were surprised and interested to see their hostess leading the young stranger across the room to the jealously-guarded inner apartment where Mr. Singleton was secluded. All eyes followed them curiously, and lingered on the curtains, which Mrs. Singleton held back for a moment while Marion passed within, and then let fall.

Marion's own curiosity and gratification were equally balanced. It was like a public triumph to be led in this manner behind these curtains, which had opened for no other of the performers of the evening. Evidently this rich and presumably fastidious old man was to be included in the number of those who recognized her to be something more than ordinary. The instant that the portières were drawn back, she looked eagerly into the apartment thus revealed.

It was smaller than the drawing-room behind her, and was luxuriously furnished. The light which filled it was softly toned and shaded, but quite brilliant enough to show all the variety of silken-covered chairs and couches, the richly-blended tints of Eastern rugs, the carved tables and stands covered with books and papers. Sunk in the depths of one of the easiest of these easy-chairs was a small, slight man; his wasted face, with its high, distinct features, snowy hair, and moustache, thrown into relief against the back of the chair on which he leaned. His hands, which rested on its arms, were like pieces of delicate ivory carving, and his whole appearance spoke as distinctly of refinement as of ill health. Seated opposite him was an old gentleman, whose robust aspect was in strong contrast with his own, and who was talking in a tone which showed that he took no heed of the music in the next room.

He paused and rose at sight of the two ladies; but Mr. Singleton did not stir, though Marion felt his bright, keen eyes fastened on her at once. She followed her hostess, who went forward to his chair.

"Here is Miss Lynde, who has come to see you, uncle," said that lady.

"It is very kind of Miss Lynde," replied Mr. Singleton, with the air of the old school—that air which a younger generation has lost and forgotten. He held out his hand, and, when Marion laid her own in it, looked at her with an admiration to which she had always been accustomed, and an evident pleasure in the contemplation of so much beauty. "Will you sit down?" he said, after a moment, indicating a low chair by his side. "I want you to tell me where you learned to sing so well."

"Where do the birds learn?" asked Marion, smiling. "I have sung like the birds as long as I can remember; although, of course, I have had some teaching. Not a great deal, however."

"It is a pity that you should not have more," he said. "Your voice, if fully trained, would be magnificent. But, as it is, you sing remarkably well; you have no vices of style, and you have given me a great deal of pleasure."

"I am very glad to have given you pleasure," answered Marion, with an air of gracious sincerity. "Mrs. Singleton has told me that you are very fond of music."

He made a slight grimace. "I am very fond of good music," he said; "but I do not hear a great deal of it from amateurs. When Anna told me of the entertainment she had arranged, I had little idea of hearing such a voice as yours."

Marion laughed. "While I was singing," she said, "I had something of the feeling which I imagine the singers must have who are obliged now and then to go through an opera in an empty theater, for the sole benefit of the King of Bavaria, who is invisible in his box."

"But you had plenty of visible listeners besides the invisible one," said Mr. Singleton.

"I thought nothing of them," she answered. "I was singing to you altogether, and now I feel as if I had been summoned to the royal box to be complimented."

There was a playfulness in the words which deprived them of any appearance of flattery, yet it was evident that Mr. Singleton was not ill-pleased at being compared to royalty—even such eccentric royalty as that of the then living King of Bavaria.

"To carry out the comparison," he said, smiling, "I ought to have a diamond bracelet to clasp on your arm. Such are the substantial compliments of royalty. But, instead, I am going to ask a favor of you—a very great favor. Will you come some time and sing to me alone? I promise you that I will not be invisible on that occasion."

"I shall be very happy to do so," she answered, promptly. "It will be a real pleasure to myself. Tell me when I shall come."

"That must be settled hereafter. My health, and consequently my state of feeling, is very uncertain. Sometimes even music jars on me. Anna shall see you and arrange it."

Mrs. Singleton, hearing her name, turned from a conversation which she had been maintaining with the gentleman who was the other occupant of the room.

"What is it that I am to arrange?" she asked. "That Miss Lynde will come sometime and sing to us alone? Oh, that will be charming! But now I must go back to my duties, for I think I hear the sonata ending. Will you come with me?" she said to Marion.

"If my audience is ended," replied Marion, with a pretty smile, to Mr. Singleton.

"Your audience is not ended, if you do not mind remaining with an old man for a little while," he answered. "Anna can return or send for you when she wants you to entertain her guests again. Meanwhile I want you to entertain me."

"Before I go, then, I will introduce General Butler, and charge him to bring you back presently," said Mrs. Singleton, after which she disappeared.

General Butler, no less pleased than his friend with the charm of a beautiful face, sat down again, and said to Marion: "Your name is very familiar to me, Miss Lynde. I wonder if you are not a daughter of Herbert Lynde, who was killed at Seven Pines?"

"Yes," answered Marion, "I am his daughter, and always glad to meet his old friends. You knew him, then?"

"Oh! very well. He was in my brigade, and one of the bravest men I ever saw. I thought there was something familiar to me in your face as well as in your name. You are very like him."

"Herbert Lynde!" repeated Mr. Singleton. "If that was your father's name, my niece was right in thinking that there might be some relationship between us. The Singletons and those Lyndes have intermarried more than once. I hope that you do not object to acknowledging a distant link of cousinship with us?"

"So far from objecting, I am delighted to hear of it," answered Marion. "Who would not be delighted to find such cousins?"

There was something a little sad as well as ironic in the smile with which Mr. Singleton heard these words, as he extended his hand and laid it on hers.

"That sounds very cordial and sincere," he said. "I hope you may never find reason to qualify your delight. I confess I am glad to find that we are not altogether strangers. It gives me a faint, shadowy claim on your kind offices. I am not a man whom many things please. But you have pleased me, and I shall like to see you again."

"I shall like to come," answered Marion, "for my own pleasure as well as for yours. I am not easily pleased either," she added, with a smile; "so you must draw the inference."

"It is one I should like to be able to draw also," observed General Butler. "This is really too narrow. I cannot claim relationship, Miss Lynde; but remember I am an old friend of your family."

"Of mine, too, then," said Marion, holding out her hand to him. As he bent over it with a flattered air, she had a triumphant sense that it was a conclusive test of her power to be able to charm and influence men of the world and of mature experience like these.

CHAPTER VII.

"Well, Marion," said Helen, "now that you have seen Mr. Singleton, what do you think of him?"

They were walking home through the soft, moonlit summer night when this question was asked; and Marion answered, lightly: "I find him charming. He is refined, fastidious, has seen a great deal of the world, and is altogether a man after my own taste."

"Then," said Frank Morley, who was walking by her side, "a man after your own taste must be a heartless valetudinarian; for that is what Mr. Singleton has the credit of being."

"As it chances," said Marion, "neither his heartlessness nor his valetudinarianism concerns me in the least—granting that they exist. But I confess to a doubt on that point. Are you very intimately acquainted with him, Mr. Morley?"

Had the moonlight been brighter, it might have been perceived that young Morley flushed at the tone of the question. "No," he answered; "I have no acquaintance with him at all. But that is the opinion of every one."

"The opinion of 'everyone' has very little weight with me," said Marion. "I prefer my own."

"You are quite right to distrust an uncharitable opinion, my dear Marion," interposed Mrs. Dalton's quiet voice. "The fact of its being general is no reason for crediting it. People are always quicker to believe evil than good, I am sorry to say."

"I suppose that is meant for me," said Frank Morley. "But really I am not inclined, on general principles, to believe evil sooner than good. I do think, however, that some weight is to be given to a consensus of public opinion."

"What a large word!" cried Helen, laughing, while Rathborne observed, with his familiar sneer:—

"A word which represents a large fact also, but a fact that must be based on knowledge in order to have any value. Now, the public opinion of Scarborough has no knowledge at all of Mr. Singleton. Therefore its decision about him has no value."

"I am glad to hear it," said Marion; "for I do not believe that he is either heartless or a valetudinarian."

"I suppose he made himself agreeable to you," said young Morley.

"Very agreeable," she answered, coolly. "He informed me that we are related, and he asked me to come and sing for him alone."

"I congratulate you on a triumph, then," said Rathborne; "for he is a most critical person, who likes few things and tolerates few people."

"So I judged," she answered; "and I felt flattered accordingly."

"How frightened I should have been of him!" exclaimed Helen. "I am very glad that my singing was not worthy of his notice!"

There was a general laugh at this, as they paused at Mrs. Dalton's gate, where good-nights were exchanged. "I will see you to the house," said Rathborne, when his aunt declared that in the soft, bright moonlight there was no need for any one to accompany them farther; he opened the gate and went in, while the Morleys walked off.

"Frank," said Miss Morley, "what is the reason that you so often speak to Miss Lynde in a manner that sounds disagreeable and sarcastic? I don't think it is well-bred, and I never knew you guilty of speaking so to any one before."

"I never had such cause before," answered Frank. "It is the tone Miss Lynde habitually employs to me. You will say, perhaps, that is no excuse, but at least you will admit that it is a provocation."

"A provocation you ought to resist," said the young lady. "I am really ashamed of you? What is the reason that you positively seem to dislike each other?"

"Miss Lynde appears to think that I am a person who needs to be kept in his place by severe snubbing," replied the young man; "and I think that she is the most vain and conceited girl I ever encountered. I don't trust her an inch; and if there is not something very like a flirtation going on between Rathborne and herself, I'm mistaken."

"How can you say such a thing! Why, Paul Rathborne is as good as engaged to Helen; and, of course, her cousin knows it."

"That's neither here nor there. Whatever she knows or doesn't know, you have only to see them together to observe how well they understand each other. As for Rathborne, no treachery would surprise me in him."

"Frank, I am really shocked at you!" cried his sister. "You have let prejudice run away with your judgment. You dislike Paul Rathborne until you are ready to suspect him of anything. Of course he admires Miss Lynde—everyone does except yourself,—but that is no reason for believing that he would be treacherous to Helen. And Miss Lynde's manner is the same to him as to everyone, so far as I have observed."

"As far as you have observed may not be very far," said Frank, with brotherly candor. "Wait and see—that is all."

"I think you ought to wait and see before you make such charges," returned Miss Morley. "You always disliked Paul Rathborne, and now you dislike Miss Lynde, so you suspect them both of very unworthy conduct. It shows how we ought to guard against disliking people, since to do so leads at last to unjust judgments."

"Very fine moralizing," remarked the young man; "but not at all applicable in this case, since I don't suspect them because I dislike them, but I dislike them because I suspect them. There's all the difference in the world in that."

"It amounts to the same thing with you, I fancy," answered his skeptical sister. "But I hope that at least you will keep your suspicions to yourself. If you breathed them to Helen—"

"Do you think I would!" he said, indignantly. "What good could it do? Helen will believe nothing against any one she loves. And she does love Rathborne—confound him!"

"Frank, you are really growing so uncharitable that it distresses me to hear you talk," said his sister, solemnly.

Frank only responded by a laugh compounded of scorn and vexed amusement; but in his heart he knew that it was true—that he was growing uncharitable, and that he disliked Rathborne so much that he was ready to believe any ill of him. It was this dislike which had sharpened his eyes to perceive what that astute gentleman thought he was concealing from every one—the fact of the strong attraction which Marion had for him; and whoever else that fact might surprise, it did not surprise young Morley in the least. He had never believed in the disinterestedness of Rathborne's affection for Helen, and it had enraged him to perceive the trust with which his cousin gave her heart to a man unworthy of it. These sentiments had prepared him to observe any failure in the conduct of that man, and there had been a gratified sense of the justification of his own judgment when he perceived what was so far hidden from everyone else except Rathborne himself and—Marion.

For Marion was fully alive to the admiration with which Rathborne regarded her; but it is only justice to say that no thought of treachery to Helen was ever in her mind. Many and great as her faults might be, they were not of a mean order. By towering ambition and arrogant pride, she might fall into grievous error, but hardly into baseness—at least not by premeditation. But it is hard to say at exactly what milestone we will stop on the road of seeking the gratification and interest of self. It pleased her to see that Rathborne regarded her in a very different manner from that in which he regarded any other woman with whom she saw him associating; the unconscious homage of his air when he approached her, of his tone when he addressed her, the choice of his subjects when he talked to her alone, were all like incense to her vanity; and it was this incense which she liked, rather than the man. Concerning the latter, she had not changed her first opinion, which did not differ very widely from that of Mr. Frank Morley.

The day after Mrs. Singleton's evening, Helen said to her cousin: "I wish so much, Marion, that you would sometimes sing in our choir! Miss Grady, our organist, said to me last night that she would be so glad if you would, and I promised to ask you."

"Why, certainly," replied Marion, with ready assent; "I shall be very glad to do so whenever you like. Catholic music is so beautiful that it is a pleasure to sing it; but I don't know much of it."

"You know that lovely 'Ave Maria' you used to sing at the convent."

"Gounod's? Oh, yes! But when can I sing that?"

"At the Offertory in the Mass. I know Miss Grady will be delighted, for she has no really good voice. Fancy, mine is her best!"

"How modest you are!" said Marion, smiling. "Very well, then, I will sing the 'Ave Maria' next Sunday with a great deal of pleasure, if your organist likes, and your priest does not object to a Protestant voice."

"He is not likely to do that; but I thought you always declared that you are not a Protestant."

"I suppose one must be classed as a Protestant, according to the strict sense of the term, when one is not a Catholic—and that I am not."

"But you may be some day."

"Nothing is more unlikely. Your religion is too exacting: it puts one's whole life in bondage. Now, I want to be free."

"Not free to do wrong, Marion! And the only bondage which the Catholic Church lays upon people is to forbid their doing what is wrong."

"I must be free to judge for myself what is wrong," returned Marion, with a haughty gesture of her head. "But we had better not talk of this, Helen. We do not think alike, and I do not wish to say anything disagreeable to you."

"Nor I to you," said Helen; "and indeed I have no talent for argument. One needs Claire for that. Dear Claire! how I wish she were here!"

"So do I," said Marion; "but not for purposes of argument, I confess."

Glad to do something to please her aunt and cousin, Marion went willingly the next Sunday to the Catholic church; and, having already seen the organist—a pleasant young music teacher—accompanied Helen into the choir-loft. Here, sitting quietly in a corner during the first part of the Mass, she had time to contrast the scene before her with that which she had witnessed during the other Sundays of her stay in Scarborough. The first thing which struck her was the poverty of the small building, as compared with the luxury and beauty of the Episcopal place of worship. Here were no finely-carved and polished woods; but plain, plastered walls, relieved from bareness only by the pictures which told in simple black and white the woful story of the Cross. The sound of moving feet and scraping benches on the uncovered floor jarred on her nerves after the subdued quiet, which was the result of carpeted aisles and pews; while the appearance of the congregation spoke plainly of humble, hard-working lives. No suggestion of social distinction and elegance was here. But in the sanctuary there was something of beauty to please even her æsthetic eye.

The small altar was beautifully dressed with freshly-cut flowers, draped with spotless linen and fine lace, and brilliant with light of wax tapers. Evidently Helen's careful hand and convent-bred taste had been there, even as Helen's pure, sweet, young voice was even now singing the angelic words of the "Gloria." The priest, who was a pale and rather insignificant-looking man, certainly lacked the refined and scholarly air of the handsome young clergyman with whom Marion instinctively compared him; but there was an assured dignity in his air and gestures, as he stood at the altar, which she was too keen an observer not to perceive, and remember that the other had lacked.

In the midst of these mingled thoughts and impressions—thoughts and impressions wherein devotion had no place—she was suddenly summoned to sing. She took her place with the self-possession which never failed her, and began that beautiful strain to which Gounod has set the sacred words of the "Ave Maria." There were not many musically trained ears or critically trained tastes among the congregation below, but even they turned instinctively to see what voice was rising with such divine melody toward heaven. Over and over again Marion had sung these words without thinking of their meaning, but she had never before sung them in the Mass; and now something in the hush of the stillness around her, in the reverence of the silent people, in the solemn, stately movements of the priest and the uplifting of the chalice, seemed to fill her with a consciousness that she, too, was uttering a prayer—a prayer of such ancient and holy origin that careless lips should fear to speak it.

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei!"—Never before had the wonder, the majesty, the awfulness of the Name struck her as it struck her now, when she was, as it were, the mouthpiece for all the believing hearts that so called the Blessed Maid of Israel. "Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ." Her voice sank over the last words with a strange sense of their meaning. The hour of our death! It would come to her, too, that hour—a sudden, intense realization of the fact seemed to run through her veins like ice,—and when it came, would it not be well to have appealed in earnest to Her who stood by the Cross, and was and is eternally the Mother of God?

Such a thought, such a question was new to this proud and worldly spirit. Why it came to her at this moment is one of the miracles of God's grace. It was not destined to make any lasting impression; but for the time it was strong enough to cause her, when the hymn was ended, to go and kneel down in the place she had left; while from her heart rose the appeal which only her lips had uttered a moment before, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now and at the hour of my death."

It gratified Helen to observe that Marion knelt with apparent devoutness during the solemn portion of the Mass; but when they came out of church, and she turned with a smile to congratulate her on her singing, she was struck by the paleness and gravity of the beautiful face. "What is the matter?" she asked, quickly. "Has anything displeased you?"

"Displeased me!" said Marion, with a start of surprise. "No; why should you think so?"

"You look so grave."

"Do I? Perhaps I am displeased with myself, then. I did not know before that I was impressionable, and I find that I am. That vexes me. I detest impressionable people; I detest above all to feel that I myself am at the mercy of outward influences."

Helen looked all the wonder that she felt. "I don't understand what you mean." she said. "How have you found out that you are impressionable—I mean particularly so?"

Marion smiled slightly. "I am afraid you would not understand if I told you," she replied. "Or you would misunderstand, which is worse. But don't ask me to go to your church again, Helen. Something there—something about the services—affects me in a way I don't like. Nothing I should dislike so much as to become a mere emotional, susceptible creature; and I feel there as if I might."

"But, Marion," exclaimed Helen, half-shocked, half-eager, "surely our feelings are given, like everything else, to lead us to God! And, O Marion! how can you turn away from what may be the grace of God? For remember, God Himself was on the altar to-day!"

She uttered the last sentence in tones of reverent awe; but Marion frowned impatiently.

"It was because I knew you would not understand that I did not want to speak," she said. "What I am talking of is a mere matter of susceptibility to outward influences. It is disagreeable to me, and I do not wish to subject myself to it—that is all. I am never troubled in that way at the Episcopal services," she added, more lightly. "I shall go there in future."

CHAPTER VIII.

It was not very long before Marion's promise to Mr. Singleton was recalled to her mind—if, indeed, that could be said to be recalled which had never been forgotten. For she had not exaggerated in saying that this old man, with his air of the world, with his keen, critical glance, and the mingled imperativeness and courtliness of his manner, was after her own taste. His evident admiration and appreciation of herself no doubt led greatly to this result; for had she been treated as he was in the habit of treating people whom he did not like, there could hardly have been much liking on her side. But since his approval of her was very manifest, her approval of him was not less so; and was, moreover, sharpened by the restless ambition which made her look eagerly for any opening by which she might gain her desired ends.

She was glad, therefore, to receive one morning a note from Mrs. Singleton, begging to know if that day would suit her for the fulfillment of her promise to sing for Mr. Singleton alone. "I should have asked you to name the day," the note went on, "but for the fact that there are only certain days on which my uncle feels equal to the exertion of seeing any one; and, of course, he wishes to see as well as to hear you. If you have no other engagement for this afternoon, will you, then, gratify him by coming at five o'clock? And I hope to keep you to spend the evening with me."

Had any engagement interfered with the proposed appointment, there is no doubt that Marion would have broken it like a thread; but she was, happily, free from such a necessity, and had only to tell Mrs. Singleton that she would accept her invitation for the afternoon with pleasure. So, at the time appointed, her aunt's carriage dropped her at the door of the house which the Singletons had taken for the season. It was by far the handsomest house in Scarborough—wide, spacious, stately, with nobly proportioned rooms, and halls that spoke eloquently of the wealth that had planned them. It was a wealth that had vanished now, as the house had passed out of the possession of those who built it; but the fine old place served admirably as a setting for the Singleton establishment, which was formed on a very lavish scale.

When Marion was shown into the drawing room, she found Mr. Singleton there, established in a deep easy-chair near the piano, with an open newspaper before him. He laid it on his knee when she entered, and held out his hand.

"You will excuse my keeping my seat," he said, as she came toward him. "I rise with great difficulty, owing to obstinate sciatica, and never without assistance. But you must believe that I appreciate your kindness in coming."

"I am very glad to come," she said, with cordial sincerity. "I told you that it would be a pleasure to me. I like to sing, especially to one who knows what good singing is; and whose praise, therefore, has value."

He smiled, evidently well pleased. "And how do you know," he said, "that my praise has that value?"

"One can tell such things very quickly," she replied. "I think I should have known that you possessed musical culture even if I had not heard so."

"I have a good deal of musical knowledge, at least," he said. "In my youth I lived much abroad, and I have heard all the great singers of the world. It has been a passion with me, and I have missed nothing else so much during these later years of invalidism. You can judge, therefore, whether or not it is a pleasure to hear such a voice as yours."

"I know that my voice is good," said Marion; "but I also know how much it lacks cultivation. I fear that must jar on you, since you have heard so many great singers."

"No, it does not jar on me, because you have no bad tricks. You sing simply and naturally, with wonderful sweetness and power. Sing now, and afterward I will take the liberty of asking you some questions about yourself."

Marion went to the piano, and, animated by the last words, sang as well as she could possibly have sung for a much larger audience. In the lofty, wide room she let out the full power of her splendid voice with an ease, a total absence of effort, which delighted her listener. Lying back in his deep chair while song followed song, and marking how clear and true every note rang, his interest in the singer grew; and he began to rouse a little from the state of indifferent egoism which was normal with him, to consider what would be the future of this girl, whom nature had so richly endowed. Perhaps curiosity had a part in the interest; at least when Marion had sung for some time, he said suddenly:—

"That is enough for the present. I must not be unreasonable, and I must not let you strain your voice. Will you come now and talk to me for a while?"

"Willingly," she answered, rising from the instrument with a smile. "But you must remember that it does not follow that because I can entertain you by singing I can also entertain you by talking."

"I think it will follow," he said. "You talk, if not as well as you sing—for that would be very extraordinary—at least well enough to make me desire to listen to you. And in order to make you appreciate that, I must tell you that the talking of most people bores me intolerably."

"Are there any signs by which one can tell when one begins to bore you?" asked Marion, sitting down on a low chair in front of him. "Because I should like to cease as soon as that point is reached."

He smiled, all the lines of his face relaxing as he looked at her. In fact, he found the charm of her beauty almost as great as that of her voice. Had it been an unintellectual beauty, he would have cared nothing for it; but the flash of that indescribable quality which the French call esprit, the quickness and readiness of her speech, the grace of her manner,—all pleased and interested the man, who was not easily pleased or interested.

"I do not believe there is any danger of your ever reaching that point," he said. "And I think you are sure of it yourself. You have no fear of boring any one; for you know the thing is impossible."

"You are very kind," she answered. "But I have never observed that the people who bore one are at all afraid of doing it. So, lack of fear would not prove exemption from the possibility. But I flatter myself that I have penetration enough to detect the first sign, and I am certain that I would not need to detect the second."

"Any one who saw you would be certain of that," he said, regarding her intently. "As it chances, however, it may be I who will prove the bore; for I am going to claim one of the privileges of an old man, and ask you some questions about yourself; or, to spare me the trouble of asking the question, I should like for you to tell me something about your life, if you have no objection."

"Not the slightest," replied Marion; "indeed your interest flatters me. But I am sorry to say that there is very little to tell. You see, my life is only beginning."

"True. You have just left school, I believe?"

"Only a few weeks ago. I came then with my cousin from the convent, where I had spent two years."

"You are not a Roman Catholic, I hope?"

"Oh! no, certainly not." It occurred to her, as she spoke, that if he should ask what she was, she would not be prepared with so ready an answer. But his interest was apparently satisfied with ascertaining what she was not, and he went on to another question:—

"Where is your home?"

"Ah! that is difficult to answer," she said. "Before going to the convent, I lived with my uncle, but I could hardly call that home; and, since I have no desire to return to his house, I must reply with strict correctness that I have no home."

"That is a sad statement for one so young. Is not your uncle your guardian?"

"I suppose that he is; but, you see, I have no fortune to look after—somehow it has all vanished away,—and, personally, I am not very much in need of a guardian."

"Permit me to differ with you there," said Mr. Singleton, gravely. "Personally, I think that you are very much in need of a guardian. And by that I do not mean any reflection on your power of conducting yourself—which I have no doubt is very sufficient,—but I mean that no young and beautiful woman of good social rank should be without the protection of such guardianship."

"I presume certainly that my uncle considers himself my guardian, and it is likely that he has legal power to interfere with my actions," said Marion. "But I think he does not feel interest enough to interfere—unless he thought me likely to bring discredit on the family. And I believe he knows me well enough not to fear that."

Mr. Singleton smiled at the unconscious pride of her tone, and the gesture with which she lifted her head. "One need not know you very well in order to be sure of that," he said. "But, since these are your circumstances, allow me, as your kinsman, to ask another question. What are your plans for the future?"

She opened her hands with a gesture signifying emptiness, and slightly shrugged her shoulders. "Frankly, I have none," she answered. "I am waiting on fate. Don't think that I mind it," she added, quickly, catching an expression on his face. "It is interesting—it is like waiting for a play to begin. If I had my choice, I should prefer the uncertainties of my life to a life already mapped and arranged like that of my cousin, Helen Morley. Why should uncertainty of the future daunt one who has a consciousness of some powers, and has no fear at all? I am only anxious for the play to begin, that is all."

"Poor child!" said her listener. The words were uttered involuntarily, and startled him a little; for he was not easily moved to sympathy or compassion. But the very dauntlessness of this courage, the very rashness of this self-confidence, were sad to the man who knew so well the pitfalls of life, the dangers which no powers could avert, no bravery overcome. If Marion had subtly calculated how best to rouse his interest, and touch whatever heart remained to him in the midst of the gradual withering up of the springs of feeling, she could not have succeeded better, nor probably half so well. Any appeal to his sympathy, any tearful eyes or supplicating tones, he would have resisted; but this proud daring of fate, this quick rejection of pity, moved him more than, beforehand, he would have imagined possible. When conscious of the words which had escaped him, he went on:—

"Pardon me, but I have known so long the life you are just beginning—indeed I am about to leave the stage as you make your début,—that I fear the play may not prove all that you fancy. It is apt to take sudden turns which no skill can foresee, and which force one, whether one will or not, into very unpleasant situations. But I have no inclination to act the part of a prophet of ill, so I hope all this may be reversed for you; certainly so much courage and so much beauty ought to propitiate Fate. And, meanwhile, if there is anything I can do to serve you, remember that I am your kinsman, and let me know."

"Thank you," said Marion, graciously. "But while waiting for the play to begin, I have nothing to desire. My friends are very kind. And now I fear that I may have reached that point of which we spoke earlier—the point of possible boredom. At least I know that I have talked too much of myself."

"Not at all," he replied, quickly. "You have only answered my questions; and I have been, I fear, too inquisitive. But my interest in you must plead my excuse. I suppose I have been more ready to gratify it because it is not easily roused—at least not to the degree in which you have roused it."

"That is very pleasant for me to hear," said Marion, truthfully. "I like to rouse interest—everyone does, I imagine; and yet I should not care for it if it were easily roused."

"No, I imagine not," said he, with a look that seemed to read her through and through. "You will care only for difficult things, and you are made to gain them."

Before Marion could express her approval of this prophecy, the sound of approaching footsteps was heard, and Mrs. Singleton entered the room, in the freshest and prettiest of evening toilets. She held out both hands to Marion, with an air of effusion.

"I was roused out of my siesta by the most delightful sounds!" she cried. "At first I thought it must be an angel singing, but angels are not in the habit of visiting me; so then I remembered your appointment, and that I had intended to be present to share the pleasure with uncle. Unfortunately I slept too long for that, but you will sing some for me now—or perhaps we had better defer it until later, when Tom can have the pleasure too. You remember that you are going to spend the evening with us."

Marion remembered, and was very willing to do so; for these were people whom she liked to cultivate. They were not only people of high social consideration, who might be useful to her, but their knowledge of the world, their familiarity with society abroad as well as at home, and their easy habits of wealth and luxury, pleased her taste and gratified her own instinctive yearning for these things. The quiet, old-fashioned comfort of her aunt's establishment lost all its charm when contrasted with the fashion and lavish expenditure which were here. She was the only guest at the beautifully served dinner to which they sat down in the summer gloaming; but she could truly assure Mrs. Singleton that she was glad it was so. "Who could be found in Scarborough as entertaining as yourselves?" she asked.

"How very nice of you to say so!" replied that lady, patting her hand. "Then we are very well satisfied; for I am sure nobody could be found in Scarborough as entertaining as you are. In fact, you do not belong to the Scarborough order of life at all; you are totally out of place here."

Marion laughed. "I am afraid I feel so occasionally," she said; "but I have an idea that it is my fault: that I expect too much of Scarborough."

"You belong to another life altogether," repeated Mrs. Singleton, positively. "I felt sure of it the first time I saw you. A quiet, sociable, country-town existence may suit other people—your pretty cousin, for example,—but it does not suit you."

"That is very true," said Marion. "As a matter of taste, it certainly does not suit me; but I learned early that one cannot always expect to have one's tastes gratified."

"You are very philosophical. Now, for me, I always expect to have my tastes gratified, and they generally are. Demand a great deal and you will get at least some of it; that is my philosophy."

"And, unlike many philosophers, you always practice what you preach. That I can testify," said Mr. Singleton (the husband). "Don't let her demoralize you, Miss Lynde. If you have any moderation of desire, by all means keep and culture it."

"Unfortunately, my desires are boundless," replied Marion, smiling. "It is only my expectations which are moderate."

"Well, that is remarkable enough," said the gentleman; "if only you can manage to keep them so—but you will not."

"Why not?"

He cast a glance into an opposite mirror. "About the best reason I offer is to be found there," he answered. "No woman is going to expect less than Nature gave her a right to demand."

And so on all sides fresh fuel was offered to the vanity which already turned high and strong in dangerous flame.

CHAPTER IX.

Several weeks passed, during which the acquaintance of Marion with the Singletons progressed rapidly to intimacy—such intimacy, that Helen protested more than once that her cousin spent more time with Mrs. Singleton than with herself. She was certainly very often the companion of that lady—seen by her side in the pretty phaeton which she drove, met at all her entertainments, called upon for all occasions when she needed assistance, social or otherwise. The vaguely understood link of relationship between them served as an excuse for this, had any excuse been required beside the caprice of the elder and the inclination of the younger lady. "I have discovered a cousin in Miss Lynde," Mrs. Singleton would say to her Scarborough acquaintances. "Do you not think that I am very fortunate?" And there were few who did not reply honestly that they considered her very fortunate indeed.

But the person who regarded this association most approvingly was old Mr. Singleton, since it secured him a great deal of Marion's society, for which he evinced a partiality. It was, in fact, to this partiality that Marion owed Mrs. Singleton's attentions. "Your uncle has taken a most extraordinary fancy to that girl, Tom." she said to her husband at a very early stage of the acquaintance; "so I think that I had better cultivate her. It will be better for me to use her as a means to contribute to his amusement than to let her develop into a power against us. There is no counting on the whims of an old man, you know."

"Especially of this old man," assented Mr. Singleton. "He is capable of anything. Therefore I don't think I would have the girl about too much."

"It is better for me to have her about than for him to take her up. If he considers her my protégée, he will not be so likely to make her his own. I have given the matter some thought, and that is the way I look at it."

"You may be right," said easy-going Mr. Singleton. "I have great confidence in your way of looking at things, and of managing them too. But I confess that I have no confidence in this handsome and clever young lady. I don't think she would hesitate to play one any trick."

"Confidence in her!" said Mrs. Singleton, with scorn. "Of course I have not a particle. But she will have no opportunity to play me a trick. Be sure of that."

Meanwhile Helen said to Marion, rather doubtfully: "Marion, do you really like Mrs. Singleton very much? She is very pleasant and very elegant, but somehow—I hope I am not uncharitable—I never feel as if one could thoroughly trust her."

"My dear," replied Marion, with her mocking smile, "do you know, or fancy that you know, many people whom you can 'thoroughly trust'? If so, you are more fortunate than I am; for I have known only one or two in my life."

"O Marion! no more than that? How can you be so unjust to your friends?"

"I have no friends, in the true sense of the term, except you and Claire. I trust you."

"I hope so, and I you—most thoroughly."

Marion regarded her with something like wonder. "Now, why," she said, dispassionately, "should you trust me? I am sure I have never shown a character to inspire that sentiment."

"You delight in showing your worst side," answered Helen; "but it does not deceive me. I know that the worst is not as bad as you would have it believed to be, and that the best exists all the time."

"It certainly exists for you, and always will," said Marion, quickly. "There is nothing I could not sooner do than betray your trust."

"How can you even hint such a thing!" exclaimed Helen, indignantly. "Do you think I could ever fear it?"

"No," replied Marion; "I am sure that you would never fear it from any one whom you love. But you may have to suffer it some day, nevertheless."

The speaker's tone had more significance than she intended, and Helen looked at her with a glance of sudden apprehension. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why should I fear it?"

"Why should any of us fear that we will have to share in the common lot—the common knowledge of evil as well as of good?" said Marion, evasively. "We must all expect it; at least that is one of the pleasant things we are told."

"Oh! yes, I suppose we must expect it," said Helen. "But expecting a thing in a general way, and doubting any—any one in particular, is a very different matter."

The conversation ended here; but the mere fact that she had been so quick to take alarm might have told Helen that, unconsciously to herself, suspicion had taken some root in her mind. The readiness with which she put herself into an attitude of defense showed that she feared attack. And, indeed, she had already suffered more than one attack on the subject of Rathborne—if that could be called attack which was only the expression of a gentle doubt, first from her mother, and then from the priest, who, distrusting all such marriages in general, had special reasons for distrusting this one in particular. Like most priests, he had many sources of information; many streams flowed, as it were, into the silent reservoir of his mind; and in this way things concerning Rathborne had come to his knowledge, which rendered him deeply averse to seeing Helen link her pure young life with that of a man so unscrupulous and selfish. Loath to give pain if unable to achieve any practical good thereby, he had spoken very guardedly to her when she sought his counsel; but, perhaps because he spoke with so much caution, his words sank deeply into her mind, and left a sense of weight behind. But it was one of her characteristics that, after once reposing confidence in a person, she could not lightly recall it; and she clung to Rathborne more closely for the opposition which she attributed to mistaken judgment.

Nevertheless, Helen was already learning something of what Marion called the common lot,—she was acquiring some knowledge of the difficulty of reconciling conflicting desires, and of the impossibility of finding things made smooth and easy. Now and then there was a wistful look in her eyes, which touched her mother deeply, and made her ready to consent to anything which would restore sunshine to one who seemed so wholly made to enjoy it.

But Mrs. Dalton was not blind to one fact, which may or may not have been clear to Helen,—the significant fact that Rathborne had not, since the return home of her daughter, pressed his suit with his former ardor. He had not begged that the conditional and merely tolerated engagement should be converted into an open and positive one; he seemed quite satisfied with matters as they stood, and took Helen's sentiments entirely too much for granted, so Helen's mother thought. What to do, however, she did not clearly perceive, and Father Barrett strongly advised a policy of inaction. "Let matters take their own course," he said. "I am of opinion that Helen may be spared what you fear most for her; but this cannot be brought about by any effort of yours, which would tend, on the contrary, to rouse opposition. If the child must suffer, in any event do not let her have the additional pain of thinking that she owes any of the suffering to you."

To this counsel Mrs. Dalton gave heed—or thought she did. But many things betrayed to Helen that her mother's disapproval of Rathborne's suit had not lessened with time. Anxious to avoid any possible conflict, the girl shrank from broaching the subject; but it was a growing pain to her affectionate nature that there should be a subject—and that the nearest her heart and life—in which she was not sure of her mother's sympathy—where her deepest feelings might yet be arrayed against each other, and a difficult choice be made necessary.

To Marion, meantime, Rathborne had become somewhat troublesome. As we learn in many an old legend that it is easier to raise a fiend than to put him down, so she found it easier to make the impression which she had desired than to regulate the effect of that impression. She had made it with the utmost ease,—an ease very flattering to her vanity; but, innocent as she had been of any intention save that of gratifying vanity, retribution followed hard upon her steps. Apart from the fact that she was incapable of deliberately betraying Helen's confidence, she trusted Rathborne no further than most other people did. Moreover, her arrogance of spirit was as great as her ambition, and she considered herself fitted for a position much higher than he could possibly offer her—had she believed him ready to offer anything. But, so far from believing this, she gave him no credit for any sincerity of intention toward her, knowing well that self-interest was the sole rule of his life. "He dares to think that he can amuse himself with me and then marry Helen!" she thought. "There may be two who can play at that game. Let us see!"

The thought that it was a very dangerous game did not occur to her; or, if it occurred, did not deter her. At this time of her life she had only a sense of worldly honor to deter her from anything which she desired to do; and she desired most sincerely to punish the man whom she believed to be true neither to Helen nor herself. Therefore, although his attentions began to annoy her, she did not discourage them, notwithstanding that she noted scornfully how he avoided, as far as possible, devoting himself to her when he was likely to be observed. But his precautions had not saved him, as we are aware, from the keen observation of Frank Morely; and Mrs. Dalton herself, with eyes sharpened by a mother's anxiety, began to perceive that Marion possessed a great attraction for him.

Matters were in this by no means satisfactory state when Mrs. Singleton, growing weary of other forms of amusement, decided to patronize Nature. There was a great deal of beautiful scenery in the vicinity of Scarborough, which she declared had been too long neglected. "A picnic is horrid!" she said. "The very word is full of vulgar associations, and the thing itself is tiresome beyond expression. One would grow weary of the most delightful people in the world if doomed to spend a whole day in the woods with them. But a few hours in the pleasantest part of the day—that is another matter. A gypsy tea is just the thing! We will go out in the afternoon to Elk Ridge, have tea, look at the sunset, and return by moonlight; is not that a good idea?"

"Excellent," said the persons whom she addressed—a party of five or six who had been dining with her. "It will make a very pleasant excursion, only we must be sure of the moon."

"Oh! we have only to consult the almanac for that," said the lively hostess. "I think there is a new moon due about this time."

Marion laughed, and, touching the arm of old Mr. Singleton, by whom she sat, pointed out of a western window to the evening sky, where hung the beautiful crescent of the moon, framed between the arching boughs of tall trees.

"Hum—yes," observed that gentleman. "Anna's attention to Nature is altogether controlled by the question of whether or not it can be made to contribute to her amusement. Now that the moon has arrived, it will not be long before the gypsy tea takes place."

And, indeed, in a few days all arrangements for this festivity were completed, the party made up, and the programme settled. Mrs. Singleton wished that Marion should accompany her; but Helen protested so much against this that the arrangement was changed; and it was finally settled that Marion and herself, with Rathborne and Morley, would make up a parti carré in a light open carriage.

There is nothing more attractive to youth, nothing more suited to its natural lightness of heart and spirit, than such pleasures as these—golden afternoons in summer woods and under summer skies; sunsets when all nature is flooded with beauty, like a crystal cup filled to the brim; and nights of spiritual, entrancing loveliness. Even with older persons, the sense of care seems lifted from the mind for a little time among such scenes; while to the young and happy, care is a thing impossible to realize when earth itself in transformed into Arcadia.

So Helen felt as she started on this excursion. In some subtle fashion, the doubts which had weighed upon her for a considerable time past were lifted. She did not say to herself that she had been foolish, for she was little given to self-analysis; but involuntarily she felt it, involuntarily she threw off the shadow which had fallen over her, and grasped the pleasure offered, as a child puts out its hand to grasp sunbeams. When they drove away, her heart was as light as a feather, her face as bright as the day, and she turned back to wave her hand in gay farewell to her mother.

CHAPTER X.

Elk Ridge, the place selected by Mrs. Singleton for her gypsy tea, was a very picturesque and beautiful locality, distant seven miles from Scarborough. The drive there, through the soft, golden beauty of the August afternoon, was delightful; and the beauties of the height when reached well repaid any exertion that might have been necessary to gain it. Since none was necessary, however, it proved a great surprise to those who had not been there before to find themselves on a noble eminence, crowned by splendid masses of rock, and commanding a most extensive view of the smiling country around and the blue mountains in the distance. It was an ideal spot for al fresco amusements, and the party assembled were in the mood to enjoy it.

Very soon a kettle was hung from crossed sticks over a blazing fire; and while the water was boiling, and the arrangements for tea in progress, all those who were not actively engaged in these arrangements scattered over the summit, admiring the view, and now and then climbing some of the more accessible of the great granite boulders. Among the last were Helen and Frank Morley, both in high spirits, and laughing like a pair of merry children. Marion shrugged her shoulders over their exploits.

"I have never been young enough for that," she said to Rathborne. "I could never, at any stage of existence, see the 'fun' of risking one's neck."

"It is childish!" he responded, with ill-concealed contempt. He had endeavored to dissuade Helen, but for once she had been deaf to his remonstrances. Her spirits were so high this afternoon that an outlet for them was indispensable; and she was still so much of a child that this special outlet of physical exertion and daring was very agreeable to her.

"I suppose it is a good thing to be childish now and then," said Marion. "I don't think I ever was; and, no doubt, it is so much the worse for me."

"On the contrary, I think, so much the better," replied Rathborne. "Where there is childishness there must be folly, and I cannot imagine you guilty of that."

"Can you not?" She paused an instant and seemed to reflect. "But there are things worse than folly," she said, with one of her sudden impulses of candor; "and I might be guilty of some of them."

"Oh! you might—yes." He laughed. "So might I. Perhaps for that reason I have more sympathy with them than with folly."

Marion gave him a glance which he did not understand nor yet altogether fancy. "Yes," she said, "I am very sure you have more sympathy with what is bad than with what is foolish."

Before he could reply to such an equivocal speech, Mrs. Singleton sent a messenger for Miss Lynde to come and help her pour out tea; and the young lady rose and walked away.

It was very gay and bright and pleasant, that gypsy tea among the rocks, with depths of verdure overhead and far-stretching beauty of outspread country below. The amber sunshine streamed over the scene; pretty pale-blue smoke, from the fire over which the kettle hung, mounted in the air; there was a musical chatter of tongues and sound of laughter. At such times and in such scenes it is difficult for the most thoughtful to realize the great sadness of the world, the care that encompasses life, and the pain that overshadows it. But these light hearts were never at any time troubled with the realization of such things. They were all young and, for the most part, prosperous; life went easily with them, and nothing seemed more remote than trouble or unhappiness. The hours sped lightly by, as such hours do, and presently it was time to think of returning. The sun sank into his golden bed, the moon would soon rise majestically in the east, and the drive back to Scarborough would be as delightful as the drive out had been.

But just before the move for departure was made Rathborne came to Marion and said: "You have not yet seen the finest view—that from the other side of the Ridge. Would you not like to walk over there and look at it?"

"I think not," replied Marion, who did not care for a tête-à-tête with him. "I am not very fond of views."

"O but, Marion, this view is really fine!" cried Helen, eagerly. "Pray go; you will be repaid for the exertion."

Not caring to make her refusal more marked, Marion rose with an inward sense of vexation. "Very well, then," she said to Rathborne; "since Helen is sure I will be repaid for the exertion, I will go; but, since I am not sure, I hope the exertion required is not very much."

"It is only that of walking about a hundred yards," he answered. And as they turned and followed a well-defined path, which led among the rocks and trees, he added, "I do not mean, however, to insist upon any exertion which would be disagreeable to you."

Marion might truthfully have answered that it was not the exertion which was disagreeable to her; but she had no desire to make an enemy of this man, and instinct told her that whoever wounded his vanity was thenceforth to him an enemy. So she replied lightly that she was very indolent, especially where the beauties of nature were concerned; but that she had no doubt the view would repay her after she reached it.

"I think it will," said Rathborne; "otherwise I should not have proposed your coming."

And indeed even Marion, who was right in saying that the beauties of nature did not greatly appeal to her, was moved by the loveliness and extent of the view suddenly spread before her, when they came to the verge of the Ridge, on the other side, where the hill broke off in a sheer precipice. The great rock-face of this precipice shelved downward to a soft, pastoral valley, beyond which were belts of encircling woodlands, green hills rising into bolder heights as they receded, and a distant range of azure mountains fair as hills of paradise.

"Oh! this is glorious!" cried Marion, involuntarily, as the broad scene, with the long, golden lights and beautiful shadows of late evening falling across it, was suddenly revealed by an abrupt turn in the path. She walked to the edge of the precipice and stood there, with hands lightly clasped, looking into the far, magical distance. At this moment, as in other moments like it, something stirred in her nature deeper and nobler than its ordinary impulses. She had a consciousness of possibilities which at other times were remote from her realization,—possibilities of loftier action and feeling, of a higher standard, of a loftier aim than her life had known. It was a state of feeling not unlike that which came to her in the Catholic church, and she shrank from it. By this grand arch of bending, lucid sky, by those distant heavenly heights with their mystical suggestions, thoughts were roused in her which seemed in little accord with the other thoughts of her life. She forgot for a moment the man who stood beside her, and started when he spoke.

"It repays you—I see that," he said. "And so I am repaid for bringing you."

"Yes, it is very beautiful," she answered, slowly; "but I am not sure that I am obliged to you for bringing me here. It produces in me feelings that I do not like."

"What kind of feelings?" inquired Rathborne, curiously.

She swept him with a quick glance from under her half-drooped eyelids, and he had again the impression that it conveyed something of contempt.

"If I could define them," she said, "I doubt if you would be able to understand them. I am certain that you have never felt anything of the kind."

"Why should you be certain of that?" he asked, a little irritated as well by her tone as by her glance. "You do not surely think that you have gauged all my possibilities of feeling."

"I have made no attempt to do so," she said, indifferently. "Why should I? But one receives some impressions instinctively."

"And you think, perhaps, that I have no feeling," he replied quickly; "that I am cold and hard and selfish, and altogether a calculating machine. But you are mistaken. I was all that once—I frankly confess it,—but since I have known you, I have changed. I have learned what it is to feel in the deepest manner."

There was a short silence. Marion's heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stand still. A fear which she had striven to put away was now a horrible certainty. She had played with fire, and the moment of scorching was come—come to desecrate a place which she had felt to be a sanctuary filled with the consciousness of God. Her first impulse was to turn and go away without a word; her next, to utter words as scornful as her mood.

"If I am mistaken, so are you, Mr. Rathborne," she said,—"exceedingly mistaken in imagining that I have given any thought to your feelings, or that I am in the faintest degree interested in them."

Her tone stung him like the stroke of a whip, and roused a passion on which she had not calculated. He took a few hasty steps toward her; and she found herself prisoned between the precipice on one side, and this man, who stood and looked at her with eyes that gleamed under his frowning brow.

"Do you mean to tell me," he said, peremptorily, "that you have no interest in feelings which you have deliberately excited and encouraged? Do you mean to say that you have meant nothing when by every art in your power you have led me on to love you?"

Surely retribution was very heavy upon Marion at that moment. The injustice of the charge—for of any such intention her conscience acquitted her—only added to her sense of angry humiliation, and to the consciousness, which she could not ignore, that she had, in some degree at least, brought this upon herself. Her indignation was so deep, her anger so great, that for once her readiness of speech failed, and she could only reply:

"How dare you address me in this manner?"

He laughed—a short, bitter laugh, not pleasant to hear. "You are a good actor, Miss Lynde," he said. "I never doubted your capacity in that line; but I see that it is even greater than I imagined. How dare I address you with the truth! Why should I not? You have made me believe that you desired nothing more than to hear it. Your manner to me, since the first evening we met, has admitted of but one interpretation—that you wished to excite the feeling I have not hesitated to show you. And so long as I merely showed it, you were pleased; but now that I utter it, you profess an indignation which it is impossible you can feel."

"You are speaking falsely!" cried Marion, whose anger was now so excessive that no words seemed strong enough to express it. "I have never for one instant wished to encourage the feeling of which you speak. I knew you were engaged to Helen, and I thought you something, at least, of a gentleman. I now see that you have no claim whatever to that title. Let me pass!"

"No," he said—and now he extended his hand and caught her wrist in a vise-like grasp. "I have no doubt, from the proficiency you exhibit, that you have played this game before with success; but you shall not have the pleasure of playing it successfully with me. In one way or another, I will make it a costly game to you, unless you tell me that all this affected indignation means nothing, and that if I end my entanglement with Helen, you will marry me."

"Let me go!" said Marion, pale and breathless with passion. "If you were free as air—if you had never been engaged to Helen—I would not think of marrying you! Is that enough?"

"Quite enough," he answered—but still he did not release her wrist. "Now listen to me. I am not a man with whom any woman—not even one so clever as you are—can amuse herself with impunity. I do not mean to be melodramatic; I shall not curse you for your deception, for the heartlessness with which you have sacrificed me to your vanity; but I warn you that you have made an enemy who will leave nothing undone to pay his debt. I read you very thoroughly, beautiful and unscrupulous schemer that you are; and I promise you that in the hour when you think your schemes are nearest success, you will find them defeated by me. To that I pledge myself."

There is something terrible in feeling one's self the object of hatred, even if that hatred be both undeserved and impotent; and, brave as Marion was, proud and defiant as she was, she felt herself shiver under these words, and under the gaze which seconded them. What, indeed, if she had made a mistake on the very threshold of the life in which she had expected to manage so well. What if, instead of making a satisfactory test of her power, she had roused an enmity which even her experience knew to be more powerful and more tireless than love? She did not quail under the fiery gaze bent on her, but her heart sank with a sense of apprehension, of which she was strong enough to give no outward sign.

"It is a very worthy object to which you pledge yourself," she observed, with scorn. "But I am not afraid of a man who is cowardly enough to threaten a woman with his enmity because she rejects and despises what he calls his love."

Her voice had always a peculiar quality of clearness in speaking, but when she was at all excited it was like silver in its resonance. Therefore the words distinctly reached the ears of one who was coming toward them, and the next instant Helen's pale face and startled eyes rose before her.

She uttered a sharp exclamation, which stopped the words that were rising to Rathborne's lips; and, wrenching her arm from his grasp, she sprang forward to her cousin's side. "Helen!" she cried, unconscious almost of what she said, "what are you doing here?"

It is not always the people who seem most weak whom emergency proves to be so. At this moment Helen exhibited a self-control which would have surprised even those who knew her best. She was pale as marble, and her violet eyes had still their startled, piteous look; but she answered, quietly:—

"I came to look for you. It was foolish—I will go back now. Don't trouble to come with me."

But as she turned, Marion seized her arm. "Helen!" she exclaimed, "don't misjudge me! Don't think that this is my fault!"

"No," replied Helen, with the same strange quietness; "I heard what you said. I don't blame—any one. I suppose it was natural."

Then it was Rathborne's turn. "Helen," he said, coming up to her, and speaking with an attempt at the old tone of authority; "you must listen to me."

But she turned away from him with something like a shudder. "No," she said, "do not ask me—not now. I may be weak, but not so weak as not to understand—this. Don't come with me. Frank will look after me and take me home. That is all I want."

She moved away through the beautiful greenery, a slender, lovely figure, with drooping head; and the two whom she left behind watched her with one sensation at least in common—that of a keen sense of guilt, which for the moment no other feeling was strong enough to stifle.

CHAPTER XI.

When Marion returned to the party, who were preparing for their homeward drive, Frank Morley came up to her with a very grave face.

"Helen tells me that she is feeling so bad, Miss Lynde," he said, coldly, "that she wishes me to take her home. I have, therefore, arranged for our return in the buggy in which Netta came out, and she and her escort will take our places in the carriage with you."

"Make whatever arrangement you please," answered Marion, as coldly as himself; "but pray leave me out of it. There is a vacant seat in Mrs. Singleton's carriage, which I shall take for the return."

"Very well—the matter, is settled, then," he said. "I will take Helen away at once." And he walked off with a scant courtesy, which his youth and indignation excused.

But it was a new sensation to Marion to be treated with discourtesy by any one; and she had to pull herself together with an effort before she was able to approach Mrs. Singleton in her usual manner, and announce that she was willing to take the seat she had before declined.

"I don't like to repeat anything, not even a drive, in exactly the same manner," she said by way of explanation; "so if you will allow me, I will join you for the homeward drive."

"I shall be delighted to have you," answered Mrs. Singleton. "I thought you would do better to come with me. Tom will be delighted, too. You shall sit with him, and drive if he will let you."

Good-natured Mr. Singleton was much pleased to share his box seat with such a companion, and even to make over the reins to her whenever the road was good enough to allow of it with safety; while to Marion there was distraction from her own thoughts—from the recollection of unpleasant complications, and the sense of angry humiliation—in guiding the spirited horses, that tried all the strength of her arms and wrists, and required an undivided attention.

However, the drive was soon over, and then she had before her the disagreeable necessity of facing her aunt and Helen. Brave as she was, she was assailed by a cowardly impulse to avoid meeting them. What if she went home with Mrs. Singleton, and for the evening at least did not meet them? But what would be gained by that, except delay? She knew that unless she wished to leave it in Rathborne's power to make what statement he chose, she must go to them with her own statement; and, this being so, delay would serve no end except to give the impression of heartless indifference. No, there was nothing for it but to meet at once what had to be met sooner or later; so when the Singleton carriage drew up at her aunt's gate, she exchanged a gay farewell with her companions, and with a heavy heart and reluctant step took her way to the house.

How different from its usual aspect that house looked, as she drew near it! Usually at this hour bright lights shone from the windows; there would be snatches of music, sounds of voices and laughter; if the moon were shining as to-night, a gay party would be assembled on the veranda. Now it was still and quiet; the lights in the drawing-room were turned low; the broad, open hall looked deserted. Only one figure emerged from the shadow of the vines on the veranda into the full moonlight as she approached. It was a small figure—that of Harry Dalton.

"Why, Harry!" exclaimed Marion, with an effort to speak as usual, "are you all alone? Where is Helen?"

"Helen has gone upstairs; she has a headache," answered Harry. "But mamma is in the sitting-room, and wants to see you."

"Very well," said Marion. She began to unbutton her gloves, as some outward relief to her inward agitation, and without pausing, walked into the house. Since the interview must take place, the sooner it was over the better—so she said to herself as she entered the room where her aunt awaited her.

Mrs. Dalton was sitting by a table on which stood a shaded lamp, and, with a book open before her, seemed to be reading; but her effort to fix her mind on the page had not met with much success. She had, in reality, been waiting for the sound of her niece's step; and when she heard her coming, she was conscious of as much shrinking from the interview as Marion felt. "I must be reasonable," she said to herself; and then, pushing back her volume, she looked up as the girl entered.

It was characteristic of Marion that she spoke first. "I am sorry to hear that Helen is not well, aunt," she said. "Has she been at home long?"

"About half an hour," answered Mrs. Dalton. "She has gone to her room; she asked that she might be left alone. That is so unlike Helen, that I am sure something very serious has occurred. And I judge from a few words which Frank said, that you know what it is, Marion."

"What did Mr. Frank Morley say?" inquired Marion, sitting down. The introduction of his name roused in her an immediate sense of defiance. After all, what right had they to suppose that what had happened was any fault of hers?

"He said that Helen had overheard something which passed between Paul Rathborne and yourself," answered Mrs. Dalton; "and that afterward she had asked him to bring her home alone. He told me this in reply to my questions. Helen said nothing; but I feel that I ought to know how matters stand, so I ask you what did she overhear?"

"She overheard me tell Mr. Rathborne that I rejected and despised the love that he ventured to offer me," replied Marion, speaking in her clearest and most distinct tone.

A quick contraction of the brow showed how much the answer pained, if it did not surprise, Mrs. Dalton. "My poor child!" she said, as if to herself. Then she looked at Marion with something like a flash in her usually gentle eyes. "And do you hold yourself guiltless in this matter?" she asked. "If Paul Rathborne is a traitor to Helen—as he surely is,—have not you encouraged his admiration? Does not your conscience tell you that you have sacrificed her happiness for the gratification of your vanity?"

"No," replied Marion; "my conscience tells me nothing of the kind. How could I prevent Mr. Rathborne's folly? But, of course, I expected to be blamed for it," she added, bitterly. "That is the justice of the world."

"God forgive me if I am unjust!" said Mrs. Dalton. "I did not mean to be. But, Marion, this is not altogether a surprise to me. I have seen his admiration for you, and I have seen—I could not help seeing—that you did not discourage it."

"Why should I have discouraged it?" asked Marion. "I saw no harm in it. I could not imagine that because he found some things to like—to admire, if you will—in me, he would become a traitor to Helen. It is asking too much to demand that one turn one's back on a man because he is a shade more than civil."

Mrs. Dalton shook her head. "Those are merely words," she said. "They do not deceive yourself any more than they deceive me. You know that you have used this man's admiration as fuel for your vanity, and that so cautious and so selfish a man would never have acted as he has done if he had not felt himself encouraged. Do not misunderstand me," she added, more hastily. "For Helen's sake I am not sorry that this has happened. It is better for her, even at the cost of great present suffering, that her eyes should be opened to his true character. But you, Marion—how can you forgive yourself for the part you have played? And what is to become of you if you do not check the vanity which has led you to betray the trust and wring the heart of your best friend?"

The quiet, penetrating words—gentle although so grave—seemed to Marion at that moment like a sentence from which there was no appeal. Her conscience echoed it, her eyes fell, for an instant it looked as if she had nothing to reply. But she rallied quickly.

"I am sorry if you think I have wilfully done anything to pain Helen," she said, coldly. "It does not strike me that I could have averted this, unless I had been gifted with a foreknowledge which I do not possess. I could never have imagined that Mr. Rathborne would be so false with regard to Helen, and so presumptuous with regard to me."

The haughtiness of the last words was not lost on the ear of the listener, who looked at the beautiful, scornful face with a mingling of pity and indignation.

"You expected," she said, "to encourage a man's admiration up to a certain point, and yet to restrain his presumption? A little more knowledge of human nature would have told you that was impossible; a little more feeling would have kept you from desiring it." She paused a moment, then went on, with the same restrained gravity: "I am sorry if I seem to you harsh, but nothing in this affair is worse to me than the revelation it makes of your character. I am grieved by Helen's suffering, and shocked by Paul Rathborne's treachery; but for the first I have the comfort that it may in the end spare her worse suffering, and for the second I feel that it is not a surprise—that I never wholly trusted his sincerity. But you, Marion—what can I think of you, who, without any stronger feeling than vanity to lead you on, have trifled with your own sense of honor, as well as with the deepest feelings of others? What will your future be if you do not change—if you do not try to think less of unworthy objects and more of worthy ones—less of gaining admiration and more of keeping your conscience clear and your heart clean?"

"What will my future be!" repeated Marion. She rose as she spoke, and answered, proudly: "That concerns myself alone. I have no fear of it; I feel that I can make it what I will, and I shall certainly not will to make it anything unworthy. But it need not trouble you in the least. I am sorry that my coming here should have brought any trouble on Helen. The only amend I can make is to go away at once, and that I will do."

"No," said Mrs. Dalton, quickly; "that can not mend matters now, and would only throw a very serious reflection upon you when it is known that Helen's engagement is at an end. I cannot consent to it."

"But Helen's engagement might not be at an end if I went away," responded Marion.

"You do not know Helen yet," said Mrs. Dalton, quietly. "I have not spoken to her on the subject, but I am certain what her decision will be."

Marion herself was by no means certain that Mrs. Dalton's judgment was correct. She thought Helen weak and yielding to the last degree, and believed that very little entreaty would be requisite on Rathborne's part to induce her to forgive him. "It will be only necessary for him to throw all the blame on me," she thought, with a bitter smile, as she went to her chamber. Nevertheless, it was not a very tranquil night that she passed. Whatever change the future might bring, she knew that Helen was suffering now—suffering the keen pangs which a loving, trusting heart feels when its love and trust have been betrayed. "It is hard on her, she is so good, so kind, so incapable herself of betraying any one!" thought the girl, whose conscience was still in a very dormant state, but whose sense of pity was touched. "How sorry Claire would be if she knew!" And then came the reflection, "What would Claire think of me?" followed by the quick reply, "She would be as unjust as the rest, and call it my fault, no doubt."

The thought of Claire's judgment, however, was another sting added to those which already disturbed her; and it was not strange that she tossed on her pillow during the better part of the night, only falling asleep toward morning. As is usually the case after a wakeful night, her sleep was heavy, so that the first sound that roused her was the breakfast bell. She opened her eyes with a start, and to her surprise saw Helen standing beside her.

The memory of all that had happened flashed like lightning into her mind; and, unable to reconcile that memory with this appearance, she could only gasp, "Helen!—what are you doing here?"

"I knocked at the door, but you did not answer, so I came in," Helen responded, simply. "It is late, else I should not have disturbed you. But I wanted to speak to you before you went down."

"Yes," said Marion. She sat up in bed, with white draperies all about her, and looked at her cousin. She expected a demand for explanation, perhaps reproaches, but she did not expect what came.

"I only want to tell you," said Helen, with the same quiet simplicity, "that I have no reason to blame you for—what occurred yesterday. It was not your fault: you could not have helped it. I don't know that any one is to blame very much," she added, with a sigh; "but I felt that I ought to tell you that I do not blame you at all."

"Helen!" cried Marion. All her proud self-control suddenly gave way, and she burst into tears. The generosity which underlay the erring surface of her nature was touched to the quick, and her conscience spoke as it had never spoken before. "Helen, you are too good," she said. "You judge me too kindly. I do not feel myself that I am not to blame. On the contrary, I have no doubt my aunt is perfectly right, and that I am very much to blame. I let my vanity and my love of admiration carry me too far, but never with the intention of injuring you or betraying your trust—never!"

"I am sure of that," said Helen, gently. She laid her hand on the bent head of the other. It startled her to see Marion display such feeling and such humility as this. "Mamma was thinking of me," she went on; "else she would not have blamed you; for how could you help being more attractive than I am? If I was unreasonable enough to think for a little time last night that you were to blame, I know better now. God has given me strength to look at things more calmly. I can even see that he may not be greatly in fault. No doubt he thought he loved me—until he saw you."

"Helen, he is not worthy of you!" cried Marion, passionately. "He loves no one but himself."

Helen shook her head. "Surely he loves you," she said; "else why should he tell you so? But we need not discuss this. Will you come down when you are ready?"

"Oh! yes," said Marion, with an effort; "I will be down very soon."

She rose as Helen left the room, and dressed very hastily, a prey the while to many conflicting emotions. Relief was mingled with self-reproach, and admiration of Helen's generosity with scorn of her weakness. "For, of course, her excuses for him mean that she will forgive him!" she thought. "I have heard that women—most women—are fools in just that way, and Helen is exactly the kind of woman to be guilty of that folly. The miserable dastard!"—she remembered his threat to herself—"I wish I could punish him as he deserves for his treachery and presumption!"

It did not occur to her to ask whether or not she deserved any punishment for the share she confessed to having borne in the treachery. Had the idea been suggested to her, she would have said that her share was infinitesimal compared with his, and that she had already been punished by the insolence she had drawn upon herself.

CHAPTER XII.

But Helen's quietness did not deceive her mother, whose heart ached as she saw in the pale young face all the woful change wrought by one night of suffering, one sharp touch of anguish. Yet, if she had only known it, the girl brought back into the house a very different face from that which she had taken out in the early morning, when, driven by an intolerable sense of pain, she had gone in search of strength to bear it. There was but one place where such strength was to be found, and thither her feet had carried her direct. She was the first person to enter the little church when it was opened to the freshness of the summer morning; and long after the Holy Sacrifice was over she had still knelt, absorbed and motionless, before the altar. Everyone went away: she was left alone with the Presence in the tabernacle; and in the stillness, the absolute quiet, a Voice seemed speaking to her aching heart, and bringing comfort to her troubled soul. When at length, warned of the passage of time by the striking of a distant clock, she lifted her face from her clasped hands, even amid the stains of tears there were signs of peace. The sting of bitterness had been taken out of her grief; and, that being so, it had become endurable. She might and would suffer still; but when she had once brought herself to resign this suffering into the hands of God, and with the docility of a child accept what it pleased Him to permit, the worst was over.

The first result of the struggle she had made and the victory she had gained was apparent when, on her return home, she went to Marion's room. The generous heart could not rest without clearing itself at once of the least shadow of injustice,—and she had implied, if she had not expressed, a blame of Marion which she was noble enough to feel might be unjust. Hence that visit which so deeply touched the girl, whose own conscience failed to echo Helen's acquittal.

Breakfast passed very quietly. Mrs. Dalton saw that her daughter was making an heroic effort to appear as usual, and she seconded it as far as lay in her power, talking more than was her custom in order to allow Helen to be silent, and to prevent the boys from asking questions about events of the preceding afternoon. To make no change in her manner to Marion was more difficult; but, with the example that Helen set, she was able to accomplish even this; and finally the usual separation for the morning took place with great sense of relief to all concerned. Marion put on her hat and went out, ostensibly to keep an appointment with Mrs. Singleton, but really to be safely out of the way in case Rathborne should make his appearance.

Helen herself had some fear of this appearance, and she took refuge in her own chamber, dreading the necessary explanation to her mother, not so much on her own account as on account of the judgment upon Rathborne which she knew would follow. Tenderness does not die in an hour or a day; and although her resolve to put him out of her life was firm, she was not yet able to put him out of her heart, nor to think without shrinking of the severe condemnation which her mother would mete out to him. There was no need for haste in speaking; she might rest a little, and gather strength for the trial, knowing that Mrs. Dalton would make no effort to force her confidence.

So she was resting on the bed, where she had not slept at all the night before, when the door softly opened and Mrs. Dalton entered the room.

"Helen," she said, gently, "I am sorry to disturb you, but Paul Rathborne is downstairs and asks to see you. What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him that I cannot see him," answered Helen. "It is impossible! You must speak for me—you must make him understand that he is entirely free from any engagement to me, and I do not blame him for what he could not help. I suppose you have guessed that something is the matter," she added, wistfully. "It is only that I have found out he cares for Marion—not for me."

Mrs. Dalton put her arm around her with a touch full of sympathy, without speaking for a moment. Then she said: "My child, I always knew he was not worthy of you."

"But this does not prove him unworthy of me," replied Helen, in a tone sharp with pain. "It only proves that he was mistaken when he thought of me."

"Men of honor do not make such mistakes," said Mrs. Dalton.

"How could he help falling in love with Marion?" continued Helen. "She is so much more beautiful, so much more attractive than I am! And that he has done so, settles the doubt of his disinterestedness which you always entertained. Do him so much justice, mamma. You feared that he professed to care for me because I have a little money. But Marion has none."

"We need not discuss that, my dear," said Mrs. Dalton, who was touched but not convinced by this generous plea. "It is enough if, satisfied that his affections have wandered, you are determined to dismiss him."

"Yes," said Helen, "I am determined on that. But I cannot see him. You must go to him, and tell him from me that I do not blame him, but that all is at an end between us."

With this message Mrs. Dalton went downstairs. Her own mood with Rathborne was far from being as charitable as her daughter's; and her face, usually set in very gentle lines, hardened to sternness as she descended. She was not inclined to deal leniently with one who had so shamefully betrayed the trust placed in him, and had overshadowed so darkly the sunshine of Helen's life. Like some other parents, she had up to this time imagined that the stern conditions of human existence were to be relaxed for Helen, and that one so formed for happiness was to be granted that happiness in a measure which is allowed to few. A sense of keen injury was, therefore, added to her indignation at a treachery for which she could find no palliation.

Rathborne, who was anxiously expecting yet dreading to see Helen, drew his breath with a sharp sense of vexation when his aunt entered. This was worse than he had feared. Calculating upon Helen's gentleness, he had not thought that she would refuse to see him; and if she saw him, he believed that his influence would be strong enough to induce her to overlook anything. But when Mrs. Dalton entered, he knew that the consequences of his treachery were to be fully paid. A cold greeting was exchanged between them, and then a short silence followed, as each hesitated to speak. It was Mrs. Dalton who broke it, as soon as she felt able to control her voice.

"I have told Helen that you are here," she said, "but she declines to see you. It is not necessary, I presume, to explain why she declines. Of that you are fully aware. It is not necessary, either, that I should add anything to her own words, which are, briefly, that you will consider everything at an end between you. She added also that she does not blame you for anything that has occurred—but I hardly think that your own conscience will echo that."

"No," said Rathborne, who had paled perceptibly, "my own conscience does not echo it. On the contrary, I feel that I am deeply to blame; yet I hoped that Helen might believe me when I say that I am not so much to blame as appears on the surface. A man may be tempted beyond his strength, and some women are experts in such temptations."

Mrs. Dalton looked at him with scorn in her eyes. "If you think," she said, "that you will serve your cause with Helen by such cowardly insinuations as that, you are mistaken. And, as far as I am concerned, you have only taken a step lower in my esteem. But that is a point which does not matter. Wherever the blame rests, the fact remains that if Helen did not take the decision of the matter into her hands, I should do so. You have proved yourself a man whom it is impossible I can ever consent to trust with my daughter's life and happiness."

Rathborne rose to his feet. The decisive words seemed to leave him no alternative. He felt that he had committed a blunder which was altogether irretrievable; and combined with the keen mortification of failure was a hatred, which gathered bitterness with every moment, against the woman he believed to have led him on and deceived him.

"In that case," he said, "there is nothing for me to do but to go. I had hoped that Helen might understand—that she would not let a moment of folly outweigh the devotion of years; but if she judges me as hardly as you seem to imply, I see that my hope is vain. Tell her from me that if she knew the whole truth she would regard the matter in a different light. But if she does not wish to know the truth—if she prefers to judge me unheard,—I can only submit."

"It is best she should not see you," said Mrs. Dalton, who was glad that Helen herself had decided this point. "Even if you persuaded her to trust you again, I could not give my consent to the renewal of an engagement which has been ended in this manner."

"You have always distrusted me," said Rathborne, bitterly.

"No," she replied, gravely; "so far from that, I trusted you as my own son, though I did not think you were the person to make Helen happy. I had always a fear that you did not care for her enough, and now I am forced to believe that you did not care for her at all. If you had done so, this could never have happened, just as it could never have happened if you had possessed the right principle and the sense of honor which I should certainly wish my daughter's husband to possess."

Rathborne could hardly believe the evidence of his ears as he listened to these severe, incisive words. He had always regarded Mrs. Dalton as a person who was mild to weakness, and whom, whenever it suited him, he could influence in whatever manner desired. He therefore scarcely recognized this woman, with her sentence of condemnation based on premises which he could not deny, though he made a faint attempt to do so.

"You do not understand," he said, "how a brief infatuation—a delirium of fancy—can attack a man, let his sense of honor be what it may. As for my attachment to Helen, that is something which has lasted too long to be doubted now."

"Will you inform me, then, how you proposed to reconcile it with your declaration to Marion?"

"That was drawn from me—forced from me!" he exclaimed. "It was a madness of the moment, into which I was led by her art."

Mrs. Dalton rose now, a bright spot of color on each check. "That is enough!" she said. "I can listen to nothing more. No man of honor would, for his own sake, utter such words as those—even if they were true, and I am sure they are not. Great as my niece's faults may be, she is incapable of such conduct as you charge her with. Go, Paul Rathborne! By such excuses you only prove more and more how unworthy you are of Helen's affection or Helen's trust."

"Very well," he answered, his face white and bitter with anger. "As you and she have decided, so be it. But take care that the day does not come when you will deeply regret this decision."

Then he turned, and, without giving her time to reply had she been so inclined, left the room.

Mrs. Dalton looked after him with a heavy sigh. Regret her decision she knew that she would not; but it would be vain to say that she did not regret the necessity for it, that she did not think with a keen pang of Helen's suffering, and that she did not feel, with much bitterness, that Marion had not been guiltless in the matter. Yet even in the midst of her indignation she had pity for the girl, whose vanity and ambition were likely to wreck her life, as they had already gone far to alienate her best friends.

Meanwhile Marion could not disguise the fact that she was not in her usual spirits—for the thought of Helen weighed heavily upon her,—and Mrs. Singleton, observing this, drew at once her own conclusions.

"I am afraid the gypsy tea was not altogether a success, so far as you were concerned or your cousin either," she said. "I heard that she went home with Frank Morley instead of with her fiancé. I will not ask any indiscreet questions, but I suspect that your attractions have drawn Mr. Rathborne from his allegiance. It is what I have anticipated for some time."

Marion frowned a little, annoyed by this freedom, which, however, she felt that she had drawn upon herself, and had no right to resent. But she evaded the implied question.

"Helen was not feeling well, and so she made her cousin take her home before we were ready to start," she said. "I am not particularly partial to Miss Morley's society, or Mr. Rathborne's either, and thought I would accept the seat you offered me. That was the whole matter."

"I am delighted to hear it," said Mrs. Singleton, not deceived in the least. "I was afraid there had been a lover's quarrel, and that perhaps you were the innocent cause of it. That is always such an awkward position. I have occupied it myself once or twice, so I speak from knowledge."

"I am sure that if you occupied it, it must have been innocently," said Marion, with malice. "But we need not discuss what is not, I trust, likely to occur, so far as I am concerned. How is Mr. Singleton this morning?"

"Not well at all. This is one of his bad days. And it is one of mine, too," she added, with a slight grimace; "for I have just heard that Brian Earle is coming."

"And who is Brian Earle?"

"Surely you have heard my uncle talk of him? At least, it is most astonishing if you have not; for he likes him better than any one else in the world, I think; although they don't agree very well. I have no fancy for Brian myself: I find him entirely too much of a prig; but I will say that he might twist the old man around his finger if he would only yield a little more to his wishes and opinions. It is a lucky thing for us that he will not, but it does not make his folly less. Fancy! Mr. Singleton asked him to live with him, look after his business, and generally devote himself to him during his life, with the promise of making him his sole heir, and he refused! Can you believe that?"

"I must believe it if you are sure of it," replied Marion, smiling at the energy of the other. "But why did he refuse?"

Mrs. Singleton shrugged her shoulders. "Because he was not willing to give up control of his own life, and spend the best years of his youth in idleness, waiting for an old man to die. That is what he said. As if he would not gain by that waiting more than his wretched art would bring him if he toiled at it all his life!"

"His art—what is he?"

"Oh! a painter—or an attempt at one. Are such people always visionary and impracticable? I judge so from what I have read of them, and from my knowledge of him. It is true that his folly serves our interest very well; for if he had agreed to what his uncle proposed, we should have no chance of inheriting anything; but, nevertheless, one has a contempt for a man with so little sense."

"I think you should have the highest regard for him in this instance, since he is serving your interest so well. But why is he coming?"

"To see his uncle before going abroad again. Mr. Singleton has a strong attachment for him, notwithstanding the way he has acted; and I should not be surprised if he made him his heir, after all. So you see there is no reason why I should be overjoyed at his visit, especially since he is not at all an agreeable person, as you will see."

"I may not see," said Marion; "for I do not think I shall be in Scarborough much longer."

"You are going away?" said Mrs. Singleton, with a quick flash of comprehension in her eyes.

"In a few days probably," was the reply. "I promised to spend only a month with Helen, and I have been here now six weeks."

"But I thought you were good for the season," said Mrs. Singleton; while her inward comment was: "So matters are just as I thought!"

CHAPTER XIII.

Reticence was not Mrs. Singleton's distinguishing characteristic. It was not very long, therefore, before she mentioned her suspicions about Marion both to her husband and her uncle. The first laughed, and remarked that it was only what he had expected; the latter looked grave, and said: "In that case it will not be pleasant for her to remain in her aunt's house."

"So far from it," was the careless reply, "that she is speaking of leaving Scarborough."

Mr. Singleton glanced up sharply. "That would be very undesirable," he said. "Her singing is a great pleasure to me; for the matter of that, so is her society. Ask her to come and stay with you."

Mrs. Singleton lifted her eyebrows. This was far from what she anticipated or desired. There had been a little malicious pleasure in her announcement, but she would certainly have refrained from making it had she feared such a result as this. She was so vexed that for a moment she could scarcely speak. Then she said: "You are very kind; but, although I like Miss Lynde, I do not care enough for her society to ask her to stay with me."

"I never imagined for an instant that you cared for her society," replied Mr. Singleton, coolly. "I was not thinking of your gratification, but of my own, in desiring you to ask her here. Of course, it is necessary that she should be nominally your guest; although, as we are aware, really mine."

"I think, then, that it would be best she should be nominally as well as really yours," said Mrs. Singleton, too much provoked to consider for the moment what was her best policy.

Mr. Singleton looked at her with an ominous flash in his glance. "Very well," he answered, deliberately. "That is just as you please. We can easily change existing arrangements. I will speak to Tom about it."

But this intimation at once brought Mrs. Singleton to unconditional surrender.

"There is no need for that," she said, hastily. "Of course I will do whatever you desire. I only thought it might be best that the matter should be clearly understood. I have no fancy for Miss Lynde, nor any desire for her companionship. To speak the truth, I do not trust her at all."

Mr. Singleton shrugged his shoulders—a gesture to which he gave an expression that many of his friends found very irritating. It said plainly at present that nothing mattered less in his opinion than whether Mrs. Singleton trusted Miss Lynde or not.

"Let us keep to the point," he said, quietly. "What your sentiments with regard to the young lady may be I do not inquire. I only desire you to ask her to come here. If you object to do this—and far be it from me to place any constraint upon you,—I must simply make an arrangement by which it can be done. That is all."

"Why should I object?" asked Mrs. Singleton. "If she comes as your guest, it is certainly not my affair."

"I have requested, however, that you ask her to come as your guest. Do not misunderstand that point. And do not give the invitation so that it may be declined. I should consider that tantamount to not giving it at all. See that she comes. You can arrange it if you like."

With this intimation the conversation ended, and Mrs. Singleton had no comfort but to tell her husband of the disagreeable necessity laid upon her. "I am to ask Marion Lynde to come here as my guest, and I am to see that she comes! Could anything be more vexatious?" she demanded. "I am so provoked that I feel inclined to leave your uncle to manage his own affairs, and to get somebody else to invite guests for his amusement."

"Nothing would be easier than for him to do so," said Mr. Singleton. "We are not at all necessary to him, you know. And why on earth should you object to asking Miss Lynde, if he desires it? It seems to me that you might desire it yourself."

"Oh! it seems so to you, does it?" asked the lady, sarcastically. "Because she has a pretty face, I presume. It does not occur to you that a girl who has drawn her cousin's fiancé into a love affair with her—for I am certain that is what has occurred—would betray us just as quickly, and use her influence with this infatuated old man to any end that suited her."

Mr. Singleton looked a little grave at this view of the case. "Well," he said, "that may be so, but how are we to help it? Certainly not by showing that we are afraid of her."

"I might have helped it by letting her go away without telling him anything about it," said the lady. "And I wish I had!"

"Useless!" said her philosophical husband. "He would have found it out for himself. Don't worry over the matter. Ask her here with a good grace, since you have no alternative, and trust that he will tire of her as he has tired of everybody else."

That this was good advice—in fact, the only advice to be followed—Mrs. Singleton was well aware. And she proceeded to do what was required of her, with as good a grace as she could command. The invitation surprised Marion, but it was not unwelcome, as cutting the knot of her difficulties. For, anxious as she now was to leave her aunt's house, and to spare herself the silent, unconscious reproach of Helen's pale face, she was deeply averse to returning to her uncle's home. She had registered a passionate resolve never to return there if she could avoid it; but she had begun to fear that she would be unable to avoid doing so, when Mrs. Singleton's invitation offered her, at least, a temporary mode of escape. She received it graciously, saying that she would be happy to accept it whenever her aunt and cousin would consent to let her go.

"Oh! I am sure they will be averse to giving you up," said Mrs. Singleton, with the finest sarcastic intention. "But if you are intending to leave them in any event, they can not object to your coming to me for a time."

"They will certainly not object to that," replied Marion. "The question is only when I can avail myself of your kind invitation."

This proved to be quite soon; for when Mrs. Dalton heard of the invitation, she advised Marion to set an early day for accepting it. "I think it necessary," she said, "to take Helen away for change of air and scene. I should have asked you to accompany us; but, under the circumstances, the arrangement proposed by Mrs. Singleton is best. I am sure you will understand this."

"I understand it perfectly," said Marion; "and am very sorry that you should have been embarrassed by any thought of me."

So it was settled. Helen was quite passive, ready to do whatever was desired of her; but the spring of happiness seemed broken within her—that natural, spontaneous happiness which had appeared as much a part of her as its perfume is part of a flower. It was hard for Mrs. Dalton to forgive those who, between them, had wrought this change; although she knew that it was well for her daughter to be saved, at any cost, from a marriage with Rathborne.

But Rathborne himself was naturally not of this opinion; and, being a person of strong tenacity of purpose, he was determined not to give up his cause as lost until he had tested his influence over Helen. The opportunity to do this was for some time lacking. He knew that it would be useless to go again to Mrs. Dalton's house and ask for an interview, even if his pride had not rendered such a step impossible. He waited for some chance of meeting Helen alone; but she shrank from going out, so he had found no opportunity, when he heard of her intended departure. This brought him to see the necessity of vigorous measures, and consequently he appeared the next morning at the Catholic church, having learned at what hour Mass was said.

Entering late—for he did not wish to be observed more than was unavoidable,—he found the Mass in progress, and about half a dozen persons representing the congregation. His glance swept rapidly over these, and at once identified Helen, observing with a sense of relief that she was alone. Satisfied on this point, he dropped into a seat near the door to wait until the service ended, looking on meanwhile with a careless attention which had not the least element of comprehension. To him it was an absurd and unintelligible rite, which he did not even make the faintest effort to understand.

When it ended, he thought that his waiting would also end; but to his irritated surprise he found that Helen's devotions were by no means over. The other members of the congregation left the church, each bestowing a curious glance on him in passing; but Helen knelt on, until he began to suspect that she must be aware of his presence and was endeavoring to avoid him. The thought inspired him with fresh energy and obstinacy. "She shall not escape me. I will stay here until noon, if necessary," he said to himself; while Helen, entirely unconscious of who was behind, was sending up her simple petitions for submission and patience and strength. They did not really last very long; and when she rose, Rathborne rose also and stepped into the vestibule to await her.

His patience had no further trial of delay there. Within less than a minute the door leading into the church opened and Helen's face appeared. At the first instant of appearing, it had all the serenity that comes from prayer; but when she saw him standing before her, this expression changed quickly to one of distress. With something like a gasp she said; "Paul!" pausing with the door in her hand.

Rathborne stepped forward, with his own hand extended. "Forgive me for startling you," he said; "but this was my only chance to see you, and I felt that I must do so."

"Why?" asked Helen. She closed the door, but did not give her hand. "There is no reason, that I am aware of, why you should wish to see me," she added, in a voice which trembled a little. "Everything has been said that need be said between us."

"On your side, perhaps so," he answered; "but not on mine. I have said nothing. You have given me no opportunity to say anything. You have condemned me unheard."

"Condemned you! No," she replied. "I have never had any intention or desire to condemn you. On the contrary, I said from the first that I did not blame you for what was probably beyond your power to control. But I desired that all might be ended between us; and, that being so, there is nothing more to say on a subject that is—that must be—painful to you as well as to me."

"It will not be painful if I can induce you to listen to me and to believe me," he said. "That is what I have come this morning to beg of you—the opportunity to set myself right. Appoint a time when I can come and find you alone, or meet me where you will. Only give me the opportunity to justify myself to you."

He spoke with an earnest pleading which was by no means simulated, for he never lost the consciousness of how much for him depended upon this; and that the pleading had an effect upon Helen was evident in her growing pallor, in the look of pain that darkened her eyes. But she answered, with a firmness on which he had not reckoned:—

"You should not ask of me something which could not serve any good end. No explanation can alter facts, and I would rather not discuss them. What happened was very natural. No one knows that better than I. But nothing can efface it now."

"Not if you heard that I was led into folly by every possible art?" he demanded, carried beyond self-control by the unforeseen difficulty of bending one who had always before seemed so pliant to his influence. "Not if I proved to you that your cousin—"

Helen lifted her hand with a gesture which had in it something of a command. "Not another word like that," she said. "I will not listen to it. If what you imply were true, how would it help matters? A man who is weak enough to be led away by the art of another is as little to be trusted as the man who deliberately breaks his faith. He may not be as blamable—I do not say that,—but one could never repose confidence in him again. That is over."

"Helen!" said Rathborne. He was amazed, almost confounded, by a dignity of manner and tone which he had not only never seen in Helen before, but of which he would not have believed her capable. He did not reckon on the judgment and strength which earnest prayer had brought, nor did it occur to him that the worst place he could have chosen for the exertion of his influence was the threshold of the church, where day after day she had come to beg for the direction that in such a crisis would surely not be denied her. "I hardly know you," he went on, in the tone of one deeply wounded. "How changed you are!—how cold! What has become of the sweet and gentle Helen I have known and loved?"

She looked at him with the first reproach that had been in either tone or glance. "The Helen you knew—who trusted you so absolutely and loved you so well—is dead," she answered. "There is no need that we should speak of her." She paused for an instant, and then, with her voice breaking a little, went on: "I am going away—I may not see you again in a long time. Meanwhile I will try, with the help of God, to forget the past, and I beg you to do the same; for it can never be renewed. And if you wish to spare me pain, you will never speak of it again."

Had Rathborne uttered what was in his mind, he would have replied that whether he gave her pain or not was a matter of the utmost indifference to him, if only he might gain his desired end. A sense of powerless exasperation possessed him, the greater for his disappointment. He had been so certain of bending Helen to his will whenever he met her alone; yet now Helen stood before him like a rock, with immovable resolution on her gentle face. He lost control of himself, and, stepping forward, seized her by the hand.

"You are not speaking your own mind in this," he said. "You are influenced by others, and I will not submit to it. The dictation of your mother or your priest shall not come between us."

"Nothing has come between us except your own conduct and my own sense of right," answered Helen. She grew paler still, but did not falter. "It is best that we should part at once; for you have made me feel more strongly that it is best we should part altogether. Let me go. You forget where we are."

"You will not listen to me?—you will not give me an opportunity to explain?"

"There is nothing to explain," she said, faintly; for the strain of the interview was telling upon her. "Nothing can alter the fact of what I heard. I could never trust you or believe in your affection after that. Once for all, everything is at an end between us. Now let me go."

He released her with a violence which sent her back a step. "Go, then!" he said. "I always knew that you were weak, but I never knew before how weak. You are a puppet in the hands of others, and both you and they shall regret this."

He left the vestibule; while she, after waiting for a moment to recover herself, turned and re-entered the church.

CHAPTER XIV.

"And so, Brian, I find you as obstinate as ever!" said Mr. Singleton, in a complaining tone.

The person whom he addressed smiled a little. He did not look very obstinate, this pleasant-faced young man, with clear gray eyes, that regarded the elder man kindly and humorously. They were sitting in the latter's private room, which opened into the drawing-room—Mr. Singleton leaning back in his deep, luxurious chair; Brian Earle seated opposite him, but nearer the open window, through which his glance wandered now and then, attracted by the soft summer scene outside, flooded with the sunshine of late afternoon.

"I am sorry if it seems to you only a question of obstinacy," he said, in a voice as pleasant as his face; "for that is the last thing I should wish to be guilty of. Mere obstinacy—that is, attachment to one's will simply because it is one's will—always seemed to me a very puerile thing. My impulse is to do what another wishes rather than what I wish myself—all things being equal."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Singleton, with the sarcastic inflection of voice which was very common with him. "Then I am to suppose that, where I am concerned, your impulse is exactly contrary to what it is in the case of others; for certainly you have never consented to do anything that I wish."

"My dear uncle, is that quite just, because I can not do one thing that you wish?"

"That one thing includes everything. You know it as well as I do. In refusing that, you refuse all that I can or ever shall ask of you."

"I am sorry to hear it," said the other. "But do you not think that it is a great thing to ask of a man to resign his own plan and mode of life, to do violence to his inclination, and to give up not only his ambition but his independence as well?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Singleton, "it is a great deal; but I offer a great deal also. You should not forget that."

"I do not forget it. You offer an immense price, but it is the price of my freedom and my self-respect."

"In that case we will say no more about it," returned Mr. Singleton, hotly. "If you consider that you would lose your freedom and your self-respect by complying with my wishes—wishes which, I am sure, are very moderate in their demands,—I shall certainly not urge you to do so. We will consider the subject finally closed."

"With all my heart," said Earle. "It is a very painful subject to me, because I regret deeply that I am unable to comply with your wishes."

Mr. Singleton made a wave of his hand which seemed peremptorily to dismiss this regret. "Nothing would be easier than for you to gratify me in the matter if you cared to do so. Since you do not desire to do so, I shall cease to urge it. I have some self-respect, too."

To this statement Earle wisely made no reply, and he was also successful in repressing a smile; though he knew well from past experience that his uncle's resolution would not hold for a week, and that the whole ground would have to be exhaustively gone over again—probably again and again.

"You seem very pleasantly settled here," he observed after a moment, by way of opening a new subject. "This is a charming old place."

"Yes. I should buy it if I expected to live long enough to make it worth while," replied Mr. Singleton. "The climate here suits me exceedingly well."

"And the people are agreeable, I suppose?" observed Earle, absently, his eye fastened on the lovely alterations of light and shade—of the nearer green melting into distant blue—which made up the scene without.

"I know little or nothing of the people of the town," said Mr. Singleton; "but I meet a sufficient number of my old friends—brought here, like myself, by the climate—to give me as much society as I want. Tom and his wife have, of course, a large circle of acquaintances; so you need entertain no fear of dullness in the short time you are good enough to give me."

"Do you fancy that I am afraid of dullness?" asked Earle, with a laugh. "On the contrary, no man was ever less inclined for society than I am. But I like the look of the country about here, and I think I shall do sketching."

"If you find sketching to do, there may be perhaps some hope of detaining you for a little while," said Mr. Singleton.

"The length of my stay will not be in the least dependent on any possible or probable sketching," returned Earle, good-humoredly. He understood the disappointment which prompted Mr. Singleton to make these sarcastic speeches; and they did not irritate him in the least, but only inspired him with fresh regret that he could not do what was desired of him. For he spoke truly in saying that, all things being equal, he much preferred to do what another wished rather than what he wished himself. This was part of a disposition which was amiable and obliging almost to a fault. But with the amiability went great strength of resolution, when he was once fairly roused; and this resolution had been roused on a matter that he felt was a question of the independence of his life. To do what his uncle asked would be to resign that independence for an indefinite length of time—to give up the career on which from earliest boyhood he had set his heart—to sell his liberty for a mess of worldly pottage—that had no attraction for him.

A man who cares little for money beyond the amount necessary for moderate competence, and who has no desire for wealth, is a character so rare in this age and country that people are somewhat justified in the incredulity with which they usually regard him. But now and then such characters exist, and Brian Earle was one of them. Possessing simple, almost austere tastes, having from his earliest boyhood a passion for art, money had never appeared to him the supreme good which it is considered to be by so many others; nor, in any real sense of the word, a good at all. This was partly owing to the fact that he had inherited fortune sufficient for all reasonable needs, and had no one depending upon him. A man who has given hostages to fortune cannot be as indifferent to fortune as one who has given none. Even if he lacks a mercenary spirit, he must desire for those whose happiness rests in his care the freedom from sordid anxieties which a monetary competency in sufficient degree alone can give.

But Brian Earle, having no nearer relative than a married sister, had nothing to teach him to value wealth in this manner; and, since it could purchase nothing for which he cared, he felt no temptation to accept Mr. Singleton's proposition that he should devote his life exclusively to him, on consideration of inheriting his whole estate. There were few people who would have hesitated over such an offer, and who would not have been inclined to hold the man insane who did hesitate. But Brian Earle did more than hesitate: he absolutely refused it.

It said much for the influence of his personal character that, even after this refusal, Mr. Singleton still evinced the partiality for his society which he had always exhibited, still claimed as much of that society as he possibly could, and generally consulted him when he had a decision of importance to make. "Ten to one, Earle will finally get the fortune as well as his own way," those who knew most of the matter often remarked. But one person, at least, had no expectation of this, and that was Earle himself.

His affection for his uncle and gratitude for much kindness, however, made him show a deference and regard for the latter which had no basis in interested hopes, and which Mr. Singleton was not dull enough to mistake. Indeed there could be no doubt that his own regard for Earle was largely based upon the fact that the young man desired nothing from him, and was altogether independent of him, even while this independence vexed and irked him. Perceiving at the present time that the conversation had reached a point where it would be well that it should cease, Brian rose to his feet.

"I think I will stroll about a little, and look into those possibilities of sketching," he said. "I have scarcely glanced at the place as yet."

"Probably some one is going to drive," observed Mr. Singleton. "There are plenty of horses, and Tom and his wife keep them well employed. Of course they are at your service also."

"I am accustomed to a humbler mode of locomotion, and really prefer it," Brian answered. "One sees more on foot."

"I wish you had more expensive tastes," said his uncle. "One could get a hold on you then."

He seemed to be speaking a thought aloud; but, as Earle had no desire to be provoking, he did not utter in reply the quick assent, "Yes, by no surer means than expensive tastes can a man sell himself into bondage."

He went out, whistling softly, seized his hat in the hall, and was crossing toward the entrance, when down the broad, curving staircase came Mrs. Singleton in out-door costume. Probably the encounter was no more to her taste than to his, but she successfully simulated pleasure, which was more than he was able to do.

"You are just going out, Brian?" she said. "That is fortunate, for I wanted to ask you to go to drive with us; but I knew you were with your uncle, and he is so fond of your society that I did not like to disturb you. But now you will come, of course. Only Miss Lynde and myself are going. I believe you have not yet met Miss Lynde—ah, here she is!"

For, as they came out on the portico together, they found Marion already there. Words of polite refusal were on Earle's lips—for had he not just remarked that he did not care to drive?—but when his glance fell on the beautiful girl, to whom Mrs. Singleton at once presented him, those words found no expression. It was natural enough that, with the delight of the artist in beauty, he should have felt that the presence of such a face put the question of driving in a new aspect altogether. It would be a pleasure to study that face, and a pleasure to discover if the mind and the spirit behind were worthy of such a shrine.

So, after handing the ladies into the open carriage that awaited them, he followed, and took his seat opposite the face that attracted him, as it had attracted the admiration of everyone who ever looked at it. Marion herself was so accustomed to this admiration that the perception of it in Earle's eyes neither surprised nor elated her. She took it as a matter of course,—a matter which might or might not prove of importance,—and meanwhile regarded rather curiously on her part the man who carelessly put a fortune aside in order to follow his own will and his own chosen path of life. On this remarkable conduct she had already speculated more than once. Did it mean that he was a fool—as Mrs. Singleton plainly thought,—or did it mean that he had a belief in himself and in his own powers, which made him stronger than other men, and therefore able to dispense with the aid which they so highly desired?

She had not sat opposite him for many minutes before she was able to answer the first question. Decidedly he was not a fool—not even in that modified sense in which people of artistic, imaginative temperaments are sometimes held to be fools by the strictly practical. But with regard to the other question, decision was not so easy. Nothing in his appearance, manner or speech indicated any extraordinary belief in himself; but Marion had sufficient keenness of perception to recognize that, under his unassuming quietness, power of some sort existed. It might be the power to accomplish great things, or it might only be the power to content himself with moderate ones; but it was certainly not an altogether ordinary nature that looked out of the clear gray eyes, and spoke in the pleasant voice.

"Where shall we go?" said Mrs. Singleton to Marion, when they had rolled through Scarborough and were out in the country. "We must show Brian all the points of picturesque interest in the vicinity. Do you think we have time to drive to Elk Ridge?"

"Oh, no!" answered Marion, quickly; "it is too late to go there. And I am sure there are other places nearer at hand which are quite as pretty."

"Do you think so?" said Mrs. Singleton, skeptically. "Pray tell us about them; for I know of no place half so charming in its surroundings and view as Elk Ridge."

Marion colored a little. She really did not know of any other place equal to Elk Ridge in picturesque attractions; but her dislike to the idea of revisiting it was so strong that she had spoken instinctively, without thought. She was always quick witted enough to see her way out of a difficulty, however, and after an instant's hesitation she answered:—

"I did not say that I positively knew of such a place, only that I was sure it must exist, and probably near at hand. Why not? The country seems to be very much the same in its features all about here."

Mrs. Singleton shrugged her shoulders.

"No one can be sure of what may or may not exist," she said; "but when it is a question of looking for it, I prefer what has been already discovered. We will not go to Elk Ridge, however, if you object. I am afraid our gypsy tea must have left disagreeable associations behind it."

Earle could not but observe that Marion's color deepened still more, and that a slight tightening of the lines about her mouth showed that her annoyance was greater than the nature of the subject seemed to warrant. "Evidently some very disagreeable association in the matter!" he thought; and, before she could reply to the last remark, he said:—

"Pray do not show me the best thing in the neighborhood at once. That should be led up to by successive degrees. These lovely pastoral meadows and those distant hills strike a note that suits me exactly to-day. I do not care for anything more boldly picturesque."

"In that case, take the river road, Anderson," said Mrs. Singleton, addressing the coachman, and settling herself comfortably under the shade of her lace-covered parasol.

So, for several miles they bowled gently along the level road which followed the margin of a beautiful stream, its soft valley spreading in Arcadian loveliness around them; gentle green hills bounding it; and far away, bathed in luminous mist, a vision of distant, purple mountains.

Earle felt himself lapsed into a state of pleasant content. The luxurious motion of the carriage, the charming scenes passing before his eyes, the beautiful face opposite him, and the sound of musical voices—one, at least, of which did not talk nonsense—all combined to satisfy the artist which was so strong within him, and to make him feel that the virtue which had brought him to Scarborough was rewarded.

As they re-entered the town, in the light of a radiant sunset, an incident occurred which revealed a fact that astonished both Mrs. Singleton and Marion. As they drove rapidly down a street, before them on rising ground stood the Catholic church, with its golden cross in bold relief outlined against the rose-red beauty of the evening sky.

"What a pretty effect!" cried Marion.

Earle turned in his seat to follow the direction of her glance, and, seeing the cross, looked surprised. "What is that?" he said. "It looks like a Catholic church."

"It is a Catholic church," answered Marion.

He said nothing more, but as the carriage swept around a corner and carried them in front of it, he looked toward the church and lifted his hat.

This act of reverence would probably have had no meaning to Mrs. Singleton, but Marion had lived too long with Catholics not to understand it. "Oh!" she exclaimed, involuntarily, with an accent of surprise; adding, when Earle looked at her, "is it possible you are a Catholic!"

He smiled. "Does that astonish you?" he asked. "There are a good many of them in the world."

"A Catholic!" repeated Mrs. Singleton, incredulously. "What nonsense!—Of course he is not—at least not a Roman Catholic!"

"Pardon me," he answered, still smiling, "but that is exactly what I am—a Roman Catholic. For that is the only kind of Catholic which it is worth any one's while to be."

CHAPTER XV.

"Oh, you must be mistaken, Anna!" said Tom Singleton, with his easy good-nature. "Brian could not have told you in earnest that he is a Catholic. The thing is absurd."

"Ask him for yourself, then," answered Mrs. Singleton. "You will soon discover whether or not he is in earnest."

"I can not say that I feel interested in his religious opinions, so why should I ask him?"

"In order to find whether or not I am mistaken, and in order to put your uncle on his guard; for I am sure that he would not be pleased by such a discovery."

"Then let him make it for himself," said Singleton. "It is no affair of mine. I should feel like a sneak if I meddled with such a matter; and, what is more, the old fellow would very quickly let me know that he thought me one. Besides, it makes no difference. Earle is out of the running. His own obstinacy settles that."

"Not so much as you think, perhaps," said the lady. "Why is he here if the matter is settled? Believe it or not, his chance of inheriting the fortune is better than yours to-day."

"Well, if so, let the best man win," returned Singleton, philosophically. "I shall certainly not descend to any trickery to get the better of him. Of course I am anxious for the fortune, but to show my anxiety would be a very poor way to secure it. I firmly believe that what makes my uncle lean so to Brian is that he does not appear to care for anything that he can do for him."

"And in my opinion that indifference is all appearance," observed Mrs. Singleton, sharply. "If he cares nothing for what your uncle can do, why is he in attendance on him? But, however that may be, I shall see that his extraordinary change of religion becomes known."

"If you go to my uncle with such information, you will only harm yourself," said Singleton, warningly.

"I shall not think of going to him," she answered. "I know very well that his sentiments toward me are not sufficiently cordial to make that safe. I shall manage that Brian will give the information himself."

"If you take my advice, you will let the matter alone," said her husband.

But he knew very well that she would not take his advice, and he said to himself that it was well for her to do as she liked. She would not be satisfied without doing so; and, after all, if Brian had been so foolish as to become a Roman Catholic, there was no objection to his uncle's knowing it. Earle himself certainly did not desire secrecy, or else he would not have mentioned the fact so openly and carelessly.

And, indeed, nothing was further from Earle's mind than any desire for secrecy. Therefore, he fell with the readiest ease into the trap which Mrs. Singleton soon laid for him. It was one evening, when the household party was assembled in the drawing room after dinner, that she led the conversation to foreign politics, and the position of the Papacy in European affairs. Mr. Singleton, who took much more interest than the average American usually does in these affairs, was speedily led to express himself strongly against the Papal claim to temporal sovereignty.

Earle looked up. "I think," he observed, in his pleasant but resolute voice, "that you have, perhaps, never considered that question in its true bearings."

"I have never considered it in its true bearings!" said Mr. Singleton, astonished beyond measure by this bold challenge; for he regarded himself, and was regarded by his friends, as an authority on the subject of European politics. "In that case will you be kind enough to inform me what are its true bearings?"

The request was sarcastic, but Earle answered it with the utmost seriousness. "Certainly," he said, "to the best of my ability." And, before Mr. Singleton could disclaim any desire to be taken in earnest he proceeded to state with great clearness the historical proofs and arguments in favor of the Pope's sovereignty.

His little audience listened with a surprise which yielded, in spite of themselves, to interest. The ideas and facts presented were all new to them, and to one, at least, seemed unanswerable.

It has been already said that Marion had a mind free from prejudice; she had also a mind quick and keen in its power of apprehension. She caught the drift and force of Earle's statements before any one else did, and said to herself, "That must be true!" Yet, even while she listened with attention, it was characteristic of her that she also observed with amusement the scene which the group before her presented. Mr. Singleton, leaning back in his chair, was frowning with impatience, and the air of one who through courtesy only lends an unwilling ear. Tom Singleton was watching his cousin with an expression compounded of surprise, curiosity, and an involuntary admiration; while Mrs. Singleton looked down demurely at a fan which she opened and shut, her lips wearing a smile of mingled amusement and gratification.

In the midst of this group Earle, with an air of the most quiet composure, was laying down his propositions one after another, unobservant of and indifferent to the expressions on the different faces around him. "He is very brave," thought Marion; "but surely he is also very foolish. Why should he unnecessarily contradict and vex the old man, who can do so much for him?" A sense of irritation mingled with the admiration which she could not withhold from him. "It would have been easy to say nothing," she thought again; "and yet how well he speaks!"

He did indeed speak well—so well that the attention of Mr. Singleton was gradually drawn from the matter to the manner of his speech. He turned and looked keenly at the young man from under his bent brows.

"You speak," he said, "like an advocate of the cause. How is that?"

"I hope that I should be an advocate of any cause which I believed to be just," answered Brian, quietly; "but I am in a special manner the advocate of this, because I am a Catholic."

"A Catholic!" Mr. Singleton looked as if he could hardly believe the evidence of his ears. "It is not possible that you mean a Romanist?"

Earle bent his head, smiling a little. "I mean just that," he said; "or at least what you mean by that. The term is neither very correct nor very courteous, but it expresses the fact clearly enough."

This coolness had the usual effect of provoking Mr. Singleton, yet of making him feel the uselessness of expressing vexation. It was evident that his disgust was as great as his surprise, but he waited a moment before giving expression to either. Then he said, curtly:—

"It is no affair of mine what you choose to call yourself, but I should have more respect for your sense if you told me you were a Buddhist."

"Very likely," returned Earle, with composure; "for in that case I should be following the last whim of fashionable intellectual folly. But, you see, I thought it more sensible to go back to the old faith of our fathers."

"You might have gone back to paganism, then," sneered the other. "That was the faith of our fathers also."

"Very true," assented the young man; "and in that also I should have been following a large train. But I was not in search of a faith simply because it had been that of my fathers. I was in search of a faith which bore the marks of truth, and I found it to be that which some of my fathers unfortunately discarded."

"And you have absolutely joined the Church of Rome?" demanded Mr. Singleton, with ominous calmness.

"Yes," Earle replied, as calmly; "some months ago."

The elder man took up a newspaper. "In that case," he observed, in a tone of icy coldness, "I have nothing more to say. The step is one with which I have no sympathy and very little tolerance; but, fortunately, it does not concern me at all."

Mrs. Singleton shot a glance at her husband, which Marion saw was one of triumph. She knew instantly that the conversation which led to Earle's avowal had not been a matter of accident. "What a pretty trick!" she said, mentally, and, with a sudden impulse to show her sympathy with courage, she addressed the young man:—

"You have at least the pleasure of knowing, Mr. Earle, that you belong to the same faith as most of the best and many of the greatest people of the world."

Earle looked at her with surprise. Such a speech, under the circumstances, was the last he could have expected from her; for, notwithstanding the glamour of her beauty, he had read her accurately enough to perceive her worldliness, and her desire for all that the world could give. He knew that she was a favorite of his uncle's, and could not have imagined that she would brave the displeasure of the latter in a manner so unnecessary. Perhaps Mr. Singleton was also surprised—at least he glanced up at her quickly, while Earle answered:—

"It is a deeper satisfaction still to believe that it is a faith which has made the best of those people what they are, and which can derive no lustre from the greatest."

"I have always observed that Roman Catholics are very enthusiastic about their religion," said Mrs. Singleton; "but I did not know before, Marion, that you inclined that way."

"What way?" asked Marion, coolly. "To enthusiasm or to Catholicity? As a matter of fact, I do not incline to either. But I have seen a great deal of Catholics, and admire many things about them. Indeed, all of my best friends belong to that religion."

"Then we may expect you to follow in Brian's footsteps before long," said the lady, with malicious sweetness.

"There is nothing that I am aware of more improbable," replied Marion.

She rose then, conscious that the conversation, if carried farther, might develop more unpleasantness, and moved toward the piano. Earle followed her, in order to lift the lid of the instrument, and as he did so said, smilingly:—

"I think you are quite right to endeavor to restore harmony by sweet sounds. Is it not extraordinary that there should be no such potent cause of discord in the world as a question of religion?"

"I suppose it is because people feel more strongly on that subject than on any other," she answered, looking up at him, and wondering a little that a man so young, with all the world before him, and all its ambitions to tempt him, should think of religion at all.

The next day she found an opportunity to say this frankly. During the morning she strolled into the garden with a book, and there encountered Earle, leaning on a stone-wall that skirted the lower boundaries of the grounds, sketching a pretty meadow and group of trees beyond. She came upon him unobserved—for he was standing with his back to the path along which she advanced,—and the sound of her clear, musical voice was the first intimation he had of her presence.

"How rapidly you sketch, Mr. Earle, and how well!" she said.

He started and turned, to find her standing so near that she overlooked his work. She smiled as his astonished eyes met her own. "Do I disturb you?" she asked. "If so I will go away."

"You have certainly not disturbed me up to the present moment," he answered. "Have you been here long?"

"Only a few minutes. You were so absorbed that you did not observe me, and I was so interested in watching you that I did not care to speak. But if I disturb you—"

"Why should you disturb me if you care to stay? You will not obstruct my view of the meadow or trees. It is a pretty little scene, is it not?"

"Very," she answered, moving to the wall, at which she paused, a few feet distant from him, and laid her book down on the ledge which it conveniently presented. Then she stood silent for a minute, looking at the shadow-dappled landscape, and conscious of a sense of pique, provoked by the cool indifference of his reply. She knew that to many men her presence would obstruct their view of the fairest scene nature might present, and she could perceive no reason why this man should be different from them,—why her beauty, which his artist-glance had evidently appreciated, seemed to have so little effect upon him. Her vanity had become more insistent in its demands, from the homage which had been offered her; and the withholding this homage had already become a thing insufferable. But she was far too proud to show this, as many weaker women do; and, after a short interval, she said, lightly enough:—

"What a very great pleasure it must be when one is able to set down beauty as you are doing—to preserve and make it one's own! I have a friend who loves art devotedly—in fact, she is a true artist,—and I have always the same feeling when I watch her at work."

"The power is certainly a great delight," said Earle, going on with his rapid strokes; "but you must not imagine that it is all delight. There is a great deal of drudgery in this as in all other arts; and, worse still, there are times of infinite disgust as well as profound discouragement."

"So Claire used to say—at least, she spoke of discouragement, but I never heard her speak of disgust."

"Claire!" Earle looked at her now with his quick, bright glance. "I wonder if I do not know of whom you speak. There can hardly be more than one Claire who is a true artist."

"There may be a hundred, for aught I know," replied Marion, carelessly; "but I mean Claire Alford. Her father was a distinguished artist, I believe. You may have heard of him."

"Everyone has heard of him, I imagine," returned Earle, a little dryly; "but I knew him well in my boyhood, and he did more than any one else to fan whatever artistic flame I possess. I was, therefore, very glad when I chanced to meet his daughter about a month ago."

"You met Claire? That can hardly be! She is abroad."

"I met her a few days before she sailed. The lady with whom she has gone, and with whom she was then staying, is the widow of an artist whom I knew, and is herself a great friend of mine."

"And so you have met Claire! I really don't know why it should surprise me, yet it does. What did you think of her? I ask the question without hesitation, because I know it is impossible for any one to think ill of her, and the well is only in proportion as you know or divine her."

"I am sure of that," said Earle, with a kindly smile for the speaker. "She charmed me at first sight: she is so simple, so candid, so unconscious of herself, so evidently intent upon high aims."

"Yes, she is all of that," replied Marion. Involuntarily her voice fell as she thought of how little any word of this commendation could be applied to herself. "Did you find out that you had something in common beside your love of art?" she asked, after an instant. "Claire is a fervent Catholic."

"Is she?" he said, with interest. "No, I did not discover it. Nothing brought up the subject of religion. But I am not surprised. There is an air about her that made me call her in my own mind a vestal of art. I can easily realize that she is something more and better than that."

"It is a pretty name, and suits her well—a vestal of art," said Marion. She was silent then for a minute or two, and stood looking with level gaze from under the broad brim of her sun-hat at the pastoral meadow-scene, unconscious for once what a picture she herself made, as she leaned on the stone-wall, with a spreading mulberry-tree throwing its chequered shade down upon her graceful figure. Artist instinct drew Earle's eyes upon her, and he was saying to himself, "How much I should like to sketch her! Shall I ask her permission to do so?" when she suddenly turned her face toward him and spoke.

"Do you know, Mr. Earle," she said, "that you astonished me very much last night? For the matter of that"—with a slight laugh,—"I suppose you astonished everyone. But I am bold enough to express my astonishment, because I should really like to know what you meant."

"I shall be very happy to tell you," Earle answered, "if you will give me an idea what you mean."

"I mean this. Why did you vex Mr. Singleton by unnecessary contradiction, and an unnecessary avowal of what you knew would annoy if it did not seriously alienate him?"

The young man regarded her with surprise. "Simply because I had no alternative," he replied. "Nothing was further from my desire than to vex him. But why, in the name of all that is reasonable, should people be vexed by hearing the truth? Is not that what we all wish, ostensibly at least—to learn and to believe the truth about a thing, not mere fancies or ideas?"

"Ye—s," said Marion, hesitatingly. "I suppose no one would acknowledge that he did not wish to know the truth; but you are aware that nothing is more offensive than the truth to people who have strong convictions against it."

"So much the worse for such people, then."

"And so much the worse sometimes for those who persist in enforcing enlightenment upon them."

"I really do not think that is my character," he said. "I have never, to my knowledge, attempted to force enlightenment upon any one. But sometimes—as was the case last night—one must speak (even when speaking will serve no end of conviction), or be guilty of cowardice and tacit deception."

Marion shook her head, in protest, apparently, against these views; but probably she felt the uselessness of combating them. At least when she spoke again it was to say, abruptly:—

"But how on earth do you chance to take that particular view of truth?"

CHAPTER XVI.

Earle smiled. "The answer to that is contained in what I remarked a moment ago," he said. "I wanted truth itself, not my own or anybody's else views or fancies concerning it."

Marion looked at him with a gravity on her face which gave it a new character altogether. "And do you really think that you found this absolute truth in the Catholic faith?" she asked.

"I do not think so—I know it," he answered. "It is there or nowhere. I satisfied myself of that."

"But how did you come to care enough about it to think of satisfying yourself?" she persisted. "That is what puzzles me most. The Catholic faith may be true—I can readily believe it is,—but how did you, a young man with the world all before you, ever come to care whether it were true or not?"

He regarded her silently for a moment before replying. It seemed as if he found it difficult to answer such words as these. At length he said: "Is there any special reason why a young man, even if it were true that he had all the world before him—and it is true in a very limited sense of me,—should not think occasionally of the most important subject in the world, and should not desire to think rightly?"

"Of course there is no reason why he should not," she replied. "Only it seems unnatural. One fancies him thinking of other things. In his place, I should think of other things."

"May I ask what they would be?"

"I am sure you can hardly need to ask. Even if you have no ambition yourself, you must realize its existence; you must know how it makes men desire fame and power and wealth for the sake of the great advantages they bring. In your place, I should think of making a name, of conquering fortune, of enjoying all that the world offers."

"Well," he said, after a short pause—during which he had gone on with the rapid, practiced strokes of his pencil,—"all that is natural enough, and there is no harm in it unless one wished to enjoy some of the unlawful things which the world offers. But why should one not do all this—make a name and conquer fortune—and still give some thought to the great question of one's final end and destiny?"

She made a slight gesture of impatience. "You know very well," she said, "that, as a matter of fact, an ambitious man has no time for considering such questions."

"That depends entirely upon the man. You should not make your assertions so sweeping. In these days, at least, no man of thought—no man who is at all interested in intellectual questions—can ignore the subject of religion. Let me illustrate my meaning. Would you have been surprised to learn that I were an Agnostic or a Positivist?"

"No," she replied, somewhat reluctantly. "That would have been different."

"Only different because they are fashionable creeds of the hour, and it is considered a proof of intellectual strength to stultify reason, and, in the face of the accumulated proofs of ages, to declare that man can know nothing of his origin or his end. But when, on the contrary, one accepts a logical and luminous system of thought, a revelation which offers an explanation of the mystery of being entirely consistent with reason, you think that very remarkable! Forgive me, Miss Lynde, if I say that I find your opinion quite as remarkable as you can find my faith."

She blushed, but answered haughtily: "That may be. It was no doubt presumptuous of me to express any opinion on the subject. I really don't know why I did it, except that I was so much surprised, in the first place by the fact that you had thought of the matter, and in the second place by the avowal which vexed your uncle."

"I am sorry to have vexed him," said Earle, quietly; "but he is too much of a philosopher to allow it to trouble him long—indeed I have no idea that it has troubled him at all."

She did not answer, but the expression in her eyes was one of so much wonder that he smiled. "What is it now?" he asked. "What are you still surprised at?"

"I hardly like to tell you," she replied. "I feel as if I had already said too much—"

"By no means. I like frankness, of all things; especially if I may be allowed to imitate it."

She smiled in spite of herself. "That," she said, "is certainly as little as one could allow. Well, then, I confess that I do not understand why you should refuse to accept the fortune which Mr. Singleton evidently wishes so much to give you. Have you conscientious scruples against holding wealth?"

"Not the faintest. I would accept a million, if it came to me unfettered by conditions which would make even a million too dearly bought."

"Such as—?"

"What my uncle asks—that I give up everything which interests me in life, and devote myself to him as long as he lives."

"But he cannot live long. And then—"

"Then I should be a rich man. But, as it chances, I do not care about being a rich man. Money can not buy anything which I desire. It cannot give me the proficiency in art which must be won by long and hard study."

"It would make that study unnecessary."

"Unnecessary!" He glanced at her with something of her own wonder, dashed by faint scorn. "Do you think that I consider making money the end of my art? So far from that, I would starve in a garret sooner than lower my standard for such an object. And, insensibly perhaps, I should lower it if I had a great deal of money. No man can answer for himself. Therefore, I have no desire to be tempted. And I repeat that money can buy nothing which I value most."

"Do you not value power? It can buy that."

"In a very poor form. I am not sure that I should care for it in its best form, but certainly not in that which money buys."

"Money is the lever which moves the world," she said; "and it is only because you have never known the real want of it that you hold it so lightly."

"I have sometimes thought that myself," he replied. "It is true that only a starving man properly appreciates bread. I have never starved, and it may be that I am not properly grateful for mine; but, at least, I try neither to undervalue nor overvalue it."

"Some day," she said, "you may find an object which money would have helped you to gain, and then you will regret the folly—forgive me if I speak plainly—which threw away such a great power."

"I should have to change very much," he replied, "before I could care for any object which money would help me to gain."

"There is nothing more likely than that you will change on that point. If there is anything that life teaches, it is that there is scarcely a single object which money will not help us to gain."

He looked at her with a curious surprise, which he did not attempt to conceal. "Forgive me," he said, "if I speak too plainly; but there is a remarkable want of harmony between your appearance and your utterances. If one listened with closed eyes, one might fancy that a man of fifty spoke in behalf of the god to whom he had devoted his life. But when one looks at you—"

"You are surprised that such sentiments should come from one who ought to be ignorant of every reality of life," she observed, coolly, as he paused. "But I learned something about those realities at a very early age. I know how the want of money has embittered my life; I know how it lays on me now fetters under which I chafe; and therefore, by right of the experience which you lack, I tell you that you will live to regret the loss of the fortune you are throwing away."

"No man can speak with absolute certainty of the future; but, if I know myself at all, I do not think I shall ever regret it."

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "In that case you will be an extraordinary man," she said. "But I feel as if I should beg your pardon for having fallen into such a personal vein of discussion."

"I do not think that the responsibility rests with you," he answered. "But if you consider that you owe me an apology, I can point out an immediate way to make amends. Ever since you have been standing there, I have been longing to make a sketch of you. Will you allow me to do so?"

"Certainly," she said, smiling; for the request flattered her vanity.

So, while she stood in the sunshine and shadow, a charming picture of youth and grace, he sketched her, feeling with every stroke the true artist appreciation of her beauty; and more and more surprised at her intelligence as they talked of art and literature, of people and events, while time flew by unheeded.

Meanwhile Mr. Singleton was certainly wroth with his favorite. The latter's change of religion—or, to be more correct, his choice of religion—was the last of many offenses; and the old man said to himself that, so far as he was concerned, it should indeed be the last. "The boy is a fool, besides being obstinate and ungrateful!" he thought, with what he felt to be righteous indignation, and which (knowing his own weakness in regard to Earle) he strove to encourage and fan into enduring anger. "But I am glad I have discovered this in time—very glad! Though he has refused so positively to do anything that I wish, there is no telling what weakness I might have been guilty of when it came to the point of making my will. But now I am safe. My money shall never go into the hands of the Jesuits—that I am resolved upon. And, of course, they would soon obtain it from Brian, who has no appreciation whatever of its value. Yes, my mind is settled at last on that score. He shall never inherit anything from me; but where on earth am I to find a satisfactory legatee to take his place?"

The consideration of this question, and the difficulty of answering it, produced in old Mr. Singleton a state of temper which made life a burden, for the time being, to all his personal attendants. While Earle was philosophically setting forth his views to Marion at the bottom of the garden, the valet and the nurse were having a very hard time in getting the fractious invalid ready for the day; and when he was finally established in his sitting-room, he probably remembered the soothing power of music, and asked for Miss Lynde.

Diligent search having revealed the fact that Miss Lynde was not in the house, Mr. Singleton wanted to know if any one could tell him where she had gone. Mrs. Singleton, being interrogated, professed utter ignorance; but one of the maids volunteered the information that from an upper window she had seen Miss Lynde in the garden with Mr. Earle. That had been an hour before. "Go to the same window and see if she is there yet," ordered Mr. Singleton when this was communicated to him. Observation duly made, and a report brought to him that she was still there, "Shall I send for her, sir?" inquired his servant.

"No," snapped the irate old gentleman. "What do you mean by such a question? Why should I wish to disturb Miss Lynde? I simply desired to satisfy myself where she was. When she comes in, let her know that I would like to see her."

Left alone then, he opened his newspapers with a softening of the lines about his mouth. After all, a way might be found of managing Brian. The influence of a beautiful woman might accomplish what his own influence had failed to do. Marion would make a capital wife for the young man. "Just the wife he needs," thought Mr. Singleton. "A woman of ambition, of cleverness, and of worldly knowledge quite remarkable in one so young. No danger of her under-valuing money, and the Jesuit would be very sharp who could get it from her. Why did I not think of this before? Of course he will fall in love with her—what man could avoid doing so?—and, in that event, everything can be arranged. She will bring him to my terms soon enough."

These reflections had so soothing an effect upon his temper that when Marion came in, and was told by Mrs. Singleton that he (with a significant gesture toward the apartment of the person indicated) was in the mood of a tiger, and demanding her presence, she was most agreeably surprised at being received with extreme kindness.

"I am told you have been asking for me. I am sorry to have been out of the way," she said.

"I wanted to ask you to sing for me," he replied. "My nerves are in an irritated state this morning, and I felt as if your voice might soothe them. But I am not unreasonable enough to expect you to be always on hand to gratify my fancies. It was well that you were out enjoying this beautiful morning."