CHAPTER XXI.
It was at first almost impossible for Marion to realize that the desire of her life was gratified in a manner so strange and so unexpected. She seemed to be existing in a dream, which would presently dissolve away after the manner of all dreams, and leave her in her old state of poverty and longing. That Brian Earle had lost his fortune, and that the old man now dead had not cared sufficiently for any of his other heirs to leave it to them,—that this fortune was hers—hers absolutely and alone,—was something that struck her as too wonderful, and, in a certain sense, too awful, to be true. There flashed across her mind a recollection of "being crushed beneath the weight of a granted prayer." Was she to be crushed beneath the weight of this prayer of hers so singularly granted?
Certainly she felt herself in an isolation which was chilling to the heart. The man she loved was gone—had parted from her in contempt; and she felt sharply how much that contempt would be increased when he heard that she possessed his inheritance. As for friends, where would she turn to find them? For her uncle and his family she had never cared; Helen was estranged—if not in heart, at least in fact; for intercourse between them could not now be pleasant to either; and it seemed a desecration of the name of friend to apply the term to Mrs. Singleton. Yet it was to Mrs. Singleton, after all, that she had to turn for social support and countenance at this crisis of her fortunes. And it was the good sense and philosophy of Mr. Singleton which induced his wife to see that she would gain nothing by following her declared intention of having nothing more to do with the heiress.
"People will only think that you are disappointed and envious," he said; "and since the world never, under any circumstances, turns its back on a rising sun, you will merely put yourself in a foolish and awkward position. The thing to do is, as I have said before, to make the best of a bad matter. And for us it might be a great deal worse. Of course we have missed the fortune, but I don't realty think we ever had a chance of it; and we are not paupers, you know. Now, it will be a graceful thing for you to take up this girl. She will appreciate it, I think, and it will prevent any undesirable gossip about her or about us."
"All that may be very true, Tom," Mrs. Singleton replied. "But I do not see how I can force myself to have anything more to do with her. I so despise her duplicity!"
"Duplicity is a thing to be despised," observed Mr. Singleton, quietly; "but I am not sure that Miss Lynde has been guilty of it. Let us give her the benefit of a doubt. If, as you believe, she schemed for this result, she most certainly did not expect it. I never saw any one show greater surprise than she did when she heard the news."
"She is a consummate actress. She might have affected that."
"Not even the most consummate actress could have affected what she exhibited. Her surprise amounted to incredulity. But, whether you believe this or not, believe that it will be best for you not to throw her off. There is nothing to be gained by that, and there may be a good deal to lose."
This view of the matter, together with her husband's unusual seriousness, impressed Mrs. Singleton so much that she finally consented to form an alliance, for purposes of mutual convenience, with Marion. The latter received her overtures with a certain sense of gratitude. She knew that they were interested, but she also knew that without Mrs. Singleton she would be placed in a very difficult position—would, in fact, appear in the eyes of the world as an adventuress who had secured a fortune at the expense of the rightful heirs. The countenance of those heirs was, therefore, very essential to her.
But this hollow compact for mutual convenience—how different was it from associations in which affection or sympathy forms the tie! Marion had fancied herself made in a mould strong enough to disregard such feelings, but she now found her mistake. Her heart ached for the affections she had lost—for Brian's strong love, and Helen's gentle tenderness. She had sacrificed both, and by sacrificing them won the fortune for which she had longed; but already she began to realize that she had lost in the exchange more than she had gained. Already the shining gold which had dazzled her was transforming itself into the dry and withered leaves of the fairy legend.