  FAIRY GOLD By CHRISTIAN REID Author of "VÉra's Charge," "Philip's Restitution," "A Child of title THE AVE MARIA PRESS 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." |
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