"That will be easily arranged," said Helen, who would not suffer herself even to look a question.
So when Mr. Singleton presently arrived, she spirited herself and her mother out of the room in the most unobtrusive manner possible, leaving the young man alone with Marion.
The latter did not waste one of the minutes for which she had asked. She plunged without preface into the subject on which she desired to speak. "Mr. Singleton," she began, abruptly, "I am going to say something very unconventional; but you who are so unconventional yourself will pardon me, I am sure. Briefly, I am going to recall to your mind something that you said when—when we had our last private conversation. You then declared your intention of following me abroad, is it not so?"
"Yes," answered Singleton, with composure; "I did, and I meant what I said. You will soon see me over there."
"I think not—I hope not," she said, quickly; "for I am sure that you have too much self-respect to persecute a woman with attentions which can lead to nothing. And I tell you in the most positive manner that they can only bring you disappointment."
"You can not be sure of that," he observed, with a touch of his former obstinancy. "Women have sometimes changed their minds."
She shook her head. "Not women who feel as I do. Listen, and I will tell you the whole truth about myself, since there is no other way of convincing you. I will not deny that what you offer is in some degree a temptation to me—I am worldly enough and unworthy enough for that; and it has been a temptation, too, to suffer you to follow me, and keep, as it were, the chance open, in case I should find that it was the best life offered me. But I know this would be wrong; for I cannot deceive myself into fancying that there is any doubt whatever about my feelings. If my heart were empty, you might in time fill it. But it is not—I will be perfectly frank with you at any cost to myself,—another man has long since filled it."
There was a pause after these words—words which it cost Marion very much to utter. To acknowledge even to herself the fact which they expressed was hard enough; but to acknowledge it to another, to this man who sat regarding her steadily with his dark, brilliant eyes, was harder still. But in courage, at least, she was not deficient, and her own eyes met his without drooping.
"You see now why I can not let you follow a false hope in following me," she continued, when after a moment he had still not spoken. "I may be mercenary in some degree, but I am not mercenary enough to marry you for the sake of your fortune, when I love another man. I have tried to crush this love, and it humiliates me to acknowledge it; but I have incurred the humiliation in order to be perfectly frank with you, and to keep you from making a great mistake."
The last words seemed to touch him suddenly. His whole face—a face which showed every passing emotion—changed and softened. "Believe me," he said, "I appreciate your frankness, and I see no humiliation in your confession. It is good of you, however, to suffer the pain of making it in order to save me from what you think would be a mistake."