"This is a very serious charge," said Earle. He held himself well under control, but the priest perceived that he was much moved. "Do you speak with positive knowledge of what you assert?"
"As positive as possible, with regard to the facts," Father Byrne answered. "Miss Morley broke her engagement because she heard the man to whom she was engaged making love to her cousin. She generously refrained from blaming the latter, but Mrs. Morley told me that Miss Lynde had undoubtedly made deliberate efforts to attract her daughter's lover. You will understand that I tell you this in confidence, and nothing but my sincere interest in you would induce me to tell it at all. You might readily hear it from others, however. It is, I believe, a notorious fact in Scarborough."
Earle was silent for a minute, looking down as if in thought, with his dark brows knitted, and his pleasant countenance overcast. The last words made him recall various hints and allusions of Mrs. Singleton's. They had produced little impression upon him at the time—not enough to cause him to inquire what they meant,—but now they came back with a force derived from what he had just heard. With sudden clearness he recalled that Marion seemed to shrink from any mention of her cousin, and that he had seen her change color once or twice when some man was alluded to by Mrs. Singleton in very significant tones. Even if it had been possible to doubt the priest, who spoke with such evident reluctance, these things recalled by memory gave added weight to all that he said. Presently the young man looked up, and spoke with an effort:—
"I have no doubt you have meant kindly, Father, in speaking of this matter; but, if you please, we will not discuss it further. To return to the book—I see that I had better decide for myself what will be suitable. Something of Newman's might answer, only he deals chiefly with Anglican difficulties; or perhaps Lacordaire's great Conferences on the Church might be best."
"That is rather a—formidable work," said the Father, hesitatingly.
"Yes," answered Earle; "but so splendid in its logic, so luminous in its style, that whoever reads it understandingly will need no other. But I must not detain you longer."
He rose as he spoke, shook hands with the priest—who was uncertain whether or not to regret what he had done,—and took his departure.
Once outside he said to himself that the thing to do now was to go directly to Marion, and learn from her the true meaning of the story which had so deeply disturbed him. He felt loyally certain that, as he heard it, it could not be true,—that she could never willfully have drawn her cousin's lover from his allegiance. At least he repeated this to himself more than once. But in his heart was a lurking doubt which he would not acknowledge,—a lurking recollection of the distrust he had felt toward her at first, and which lately had faded from his mind. Well, it would depend upon what she told him now whether this distrust were to be revived or finally banished.
It was late in the afternoon when he entered the grounds of the house in which Mr. Singleton dwelt; and the long, golden sunshine streamed so invitingly across emerald turf and bright flower-beds toward the green depths of shrubbery in the old garden, that he turned his steps in that direction, thinking it barely possible he might find Marion there, since she was partial to a seat under an arbor covered with climbing roses.
Some instinct must have guided his steps; for Marion was there, seated in the green shade, and so absorbed in reading that she did not perceive his approach. He paused for a minute to admire the beautiful picture which she made—a picture to delight an artist's eye,—asking himself the while if what looked so fair could possibly be capable of deceiving. It was a question that must be answered in one way or another, and, tightening his lips a little, he came forward.