"Not yet," said Marion. "I have only been told what I may do, and I must take a little time to decide whether or not I will do it."
"Then you have really gained nothing by going to Father Byrne," Helen continued, in a disappointed tone.
"Oh, yes! I have gained a great deal," the other said quickly. "I seem to feel myself standing on firm ground—to know just what I ought to do and what I ought not, what is permitted and what is not. The question still remains, however, whether or not to do what is permitted."
"I can't see that you have gained much," replied Helen, with a sigh.
But Marion felt that she had gained much when she faced the question alone, as all important questions must at last be faced. She had been assured that there was no reason why she should not retain a part of the money which had come into her possession; and she said to herself that even Brian Earle—indeed Brian Earle of all men—would recognize the authority of the voice which had so assured her. She need not hold herself grasping and mercenary if she did this—if she kept a little of the fortune that its possessor had given to her in its entirety. So much, therefore, was clear. But there could be no doubt that she would prefer to give it all up—to close forever the passage in her life which had been so bitter, and in the end so humiliating; to disprove by a magnificent act of generosity all the charges of scheming which she felt sure had been made against her, and to know that Brian Earle would learn that none of his uncle's money remained in her hands.
But if she gratified herself in this manner what was before her? Not only the old dependence, but a dependence which would be doubly embittered by the resentment with which her relatives were sure to regard the step which she thought of taking. "My uncle will never forgive me," she thought. "He will say that I had no right to throw away the means to help myself, and fall back on his already overburdened hands. That is true. It will be bitter as death to do so. And yet how can I keep this money? Oh, if I only had been spared the necessity of such a choice! If it was wrong to desire wealth so much, surely I am punished for it, since what it has brought on me is worse than the poverty from which I have escaped. That, at least, was simple; I had only to endure it. But this is fraught with serious consequences, that go beyond myself and touch other people. What shall I do—ah! what shall I do?"
She was walking up and down her chamber, all alone in the silence of the night. Suddenly, as she wrung her hands with the silent force of her inward appeal, Father Byrne's last words recurred to her memory: "It will be better if you ask God to guide and direct you." She stopped short. Was there any hope that God would really do this if she ventured to ask Him? It proved how much of an unconscious pagan she was that such a question should have occurred to her. But the imperative need at this moment for some guidance, stronger even than that to which she had already appealed, seemed to answer the question. She sank on her knees and lifted her heart to Him who hears all petitions, begging, simply, earnestly, like a child, to be directed into the course right and best to pursue.
The next morning Marion's companion—a quiet, elderly widow—noticed that she was more than usually restless; that she settled to no occupation, but wandered from the house to the garden and back again; from room to room and window to window, as if in expectation of some event. Mrs. Winter was not a person easily "fidgeted:" she bore this for some time without remark, but at length she was driven to say, "You are looking for some one this morning?"
"Yes," answered Marion, promptly. "I am looking for two people, and I have very important business to settle when they come. That makes me a little restless. I wish it were over." Then she laughed a little. "It is not every day, however, that one has a chance to see a dead man," she said. "That should prove interesting."
Mrs. Winter looked startled. "A dead man!" she repeated. "How—what do you mean?"