Chapter XVI

Earle smiled. "The answer to that is contained in what I remarked a moment ago," he said. "I wanted _truth itself_, not my own or anybody's else views or fancies concerning it."

Marion looked at him with a gravity on her face which gave it a new character altogether. "And do you really think that you found this absolute truth in the Catholic faith?" she asked.

"I do not think so--I _know_ it," he answered. "It is there or nowhere. I satisfied myself of that."

"But how did you come to care enough about it to think of satisfying yourself?" she persisted. "That is what puzzles me most. The Catholic faith may be true--I can readily believe it is,--but how did you, a young man with the world all before you, ever come to care whether it were true or not?"

He regarded her silently for a moment before replying. It seemed as if he found it difficult to answer such words as these. At length he said: "Is there any special reason why a young man, even if it were true that he had all the world before him--and it is true in a very limited sense of me,--should not think occasionally of the most important subject in the world, and should not desire to think rightly?"

"Of course there is no reason why he should not," she replied. "Only it seems unnatural. One fancies him thinking of other things. In his place, _I_ should think of other things."

"May I ask what they would be?"

"I am sure you can hardly need to ask. Even if you have no ambition yourself, you must realize its existence; you must know how it makes men desire fame and power and wealth for the sake of the great advantages they bring. In your place, I should think of making a name, of conquering fortune, of enjoying all that the world offers."

"Well," he said, after a short pause--during which he had gone on with the rapid, practiced strokes of his pencil,--"all that is natural enough, and there is no harm in it unless one wished to enjoy some of the unlawful things which the world offers. But why should one not do all this--make a name and conquer fortune--and still give some thought to the great question of one's final end and destiny?"

She made a slight gesture of impatience. "You know very well," she said, "that, as a matter of fact, an ambitious man has no time for considering such questions."

"That depends entirely upon the man. You should not make your assertions so sweeping. In these days, at least, no man of thought--no man who is at all interested in intellectual questions--can ignore the subject of religion. Let me illustrate my meaning. Would you have been surprised to learn that I were an Agnostic or a Positivist?"

"No," she replied, somewhat reluctantly. "That would have been different."

"Only different because they are fashionable creeds of the hour, and it is considered a proof of intellectual strength to stultify reason, and, in the face of the accumulated proofs of ages, to declare that man can know nothing of his origin or his end. But when, on the contrary, one accepts a logical and luminous system of thought, a revelation which offers an explanation of the mystery of being entirely consistent with reason, you think that very remarkable! Forgive me, Miss Lynde, if I say that I find your opinion quite as remarkable as you can find my faith."

She blushed, but answered haughtily: "That may be. It was no doubt presumptuous of me to express any opinion on the subject. I really don't know why I did it, except that I was so much surprised, in the first place by the fact that you had thought of the matter, and in the second place by the avowal which vexed your uncle."

"I am sorry to have vexed him," said Earle, quietly; "but he is too much of a philosopher to allow it to trouble him long--indeed I have no idea that it has troubled him at all."

She did not answer, but the expression in her eyes was one of so much wonder that he smiled. "What is it now?" he asked. "What are you still surprised at?"

"I hardly like to tell you," she replied. "I feel as if I had already said too much--"

"By no means. I like frankness, of all things; especially if I may be allowed to imitate it."

She smiled in spite of herself. "That," she said, "is certainly as little as one could allow. Well, then, I confess that I do not understand why you should refuse to accept the fortune which Mr. Singleton evidently wishes so much to give you. Have you conscientious scruples against holding wealth?"

"Not the faintest. I would accept a million, if it came to me unfettered by conditions which would make even a million too dearly bought."

"Such as--?"

"What my uncle asks--that I give up everything which interests me in life, and devote myself to him as long as he lives."

"But he cannot live long. And then--"

"Then I should be a rich man. But, as it chances, I do not care about being a rich man. Money can not buy anything which I desire. It cannot give me the proficiency in art which must be won by long and hard study."

"It would make that study unnecessary."

"Unnecessary!" He glanced at her with something of her own wonder, dashed by faint scorn. "Do you think that I consider _making money_ the end of my art? So far from that, I would starve in a garret sooner than lower my standard for such an object. And, insensibly perhaps, I should lower it if I had a great deal of money. No man can answer for himself. Therefore, I have no desire to be tempted. And I repeat that money can buy nothing which I value most."

"Do you not value power? It can buy that."

"In a very poor form. I am not sure that I should care for it in its best form, but certainly not in that which money buys."

"Money is the lever which moves the world," she said; "and it is only because you have never known the real want of it that you hold it so lightly."

"I have sometimes thought that myself," he replied. "It is true that only a starving man properly appreciates bread. I have never starved, and it may be that I am not properly grateful for mine; but, at least, I try neither to undervalue nor overvalue it."

"Some day," she said, "you may find an object which money would have helped you to gain, and then you will regret the folly--forgive me if I speak plainly--which threw away such a great power."

"I should have to change very much," he replied, "before I could care for any object which money would help me to gain."

"There is nothing more likely than that you will change on that point. If there is anything that life teaches, it is that there is scarcely a single object which money will not help us to gain."

He looked at her with a curious surprise, which he did not attempt to conceal. "Forgive _me_," he said, "if I speak too plainly; but there is a remarkable want of harmony between your appearance and your utterances. If one listened with closed eyes, one might fancy that a man of fifty spoke in behalf of the god to whom he had devoted his life. But when one looks at you--"

"You are surprised that such sentiments should come from one who ought to be ignorant of every reality of life," she observed, coolly, as he paused. "But I learned something about those realities at a very early age. I know how the want of money has embittered my life; I know how it lays on me now fetters under which I chafe; and therefore, by right of the experience which you lack, I tell you that you will live to regret the loss of the fortune you are throwing away."

"No man can speak with absolute certainty of the future; but, if I know myself at all, I do not think I shall ever regret it."

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "In that case you will be an extraordinary man," she said. "But I feel as if I should beg your pardon for having fallen into such a personal vein of discussion."

"I do not think that the responsibility rests with you," he answered. "But if you consider that you owe me an apology, I can point out an immediate way to make amends. Ever since you have been standing there, I have been longing to make a sketch of you. Will you allow me to do so?"

"Certainly," she said, smiling; for the request flattered her vanity.

So, while she stood in the sunshine and shadow, a charming picture of youth and grace, he sketched her, feeling with every stroke the true artist appreciation of her beauty; and more and more surprised at her intelligence as they talked of art and literature, of people and events, while time flew by unheeded.

Meanwhile Mr. Singleton was certainly wroth with his favorite. The latter's change of religion--or, to be more correct, his choice of religion--was the last of many offenses; and the old man said to himself that, so far as he was concerned, it should indeed be the last. "The boy is a fool, besides being obstinate and ungrateful!" he thought, with what he felt to be righteous indignation, and which (knowing his own weakness in regard to Earle) he strove to encourage and fan into enduring anger. "But I am glad I have discovered this in time--very glad! Though he has refused so positively to do anything that I wish, there is no telling what weakness I might have been guilty of when it came to the point of making my will. But now I am safe. My money shall never go into the hands of the Jesuits--that I am resolved upon. And, of course, they would soon obtain it from Brian, who has no appreciation whatever of its value. Yes, my mind is settled at last on that score. He shall never inherit anything from me; but where on earth am I to find a satisfactory legatee to take his place?"

The consideration of this question, and the difficulty of answering it, produced in old Mr. Singleton a state of temper which made life a burden, for the time being, to all his personal attendants. While Earle was philosophically setting forth his views to Marion at the bottom of the garden, the valet and the nurse were having a very hard time in getting the fractious invalid ready for the day; and when he was finally established in his sitting-room, he probably remembered the soothing power of music, and asked for Miss Lynde.

Diligent search having revealed the fact that Miss Lynde was not in the house, Mr. Singleton wanted to know if any one could tell him where she had gone. Mrs. Singleton, being interrogated, professed utter ignorance; but one of the maids volunteered the information that from an upper window she had seen Miss Lynde in the garden with Mr. Earle. That had been an hour before. "Go to the same window and see if she is there yet," ordered Mr. Singleton when this was communicated to him. Observation duly made, and a report brought to him that she was still there, "Shall I send for her, sir?" inquired his servant.

"No," snapped the irate old gentleman. "What do you mean by such a question? Why should I wish to disturb Miss Lynde? I simply desired to satisfy myself where she was. When she comes in, let her know that I would like to see her."

Left alone then, he opened his newspapers with a softening of the lines about his mouth. After all, a way might be found of managing Brian. The influence of a beautiful woman might accomplish what his own influence had failed to do. Marion would make a capital wife for the young man. "Just the wife he needs," thought Mr. Singleton. "A woman of ambition, of cleverness, and of worldly knowledge quite remarkable in one so young. No danger of _her_ under-valuing money, and the Jesuit would be very sharp who could get it from her. Why did I not think of this before? Of course he will fall in love with her--what man could avoid doing so?--and, in that event, everything can be arranged. _She_ will bring him to my terms soon enough."

These reflections had so soothing an effect upon his temper that when Marion came in, and was told by Mrs. Singleton that _he_ (with a significant gesture toward the apartment of the person indicated) was in the mood of a tiger, and demanding her presence, she was most agreeably surprised at being received with extreme kindness.

"I am told you have been asking for me. I am sorry to have been out of the way," she said.

"I wanted to ask you to sing for me," he replied. "My nerves are in an irritated state this morning, and I felt as if your voice might soothe them. But I am not unreasonable enough to expect you to be always on hand to gratify my fancies. It was well that you were out enjoying this beautiful morning."

"I was only in the garden. You might have sent for me. I should have been delighted to come and sing for you. Shall I do so now?"

"After a little. Sit down and let me talk to you for a few minutes. I suppose you can imagine what it is that gave me a particularly bad night, and has set my nerves on edge this morning?"

"I am afraid that it is worry," said Marion, sitting down near him. "You did not like what Mr. Earle said last night."

"I certainly did not like it. The announcement he made was a great surprise to me and a great shock. Under any circumstances, I should be sorry for any one in whom I felt an interest to take such a step; but you are probably aware that I have felt a peculiar interest in Brian."

"I have heard that your intentions toward him have been most kind."

"I have desired that he shall take with me the place of a son. I have asked him to accept the duties of such a position--duties that would not be very heavy,--and I have promised that, in return, he shall inherit everything that is mine. Do you think that an unreasonable proposal?"

"Very far from it," answered Marion. "I think it most reasonable and most kind. I can not understand how he can hesitate over it."

"He does not hesitate," said Mr. Singleton, bitterly: "he refuses it. After that I ought to be willing to let him go; but the truth of the matter is, I have no one to take his place. He is not only my nearest relative, but there is something about him that attaches one to him despite one's self. My dear"--he looked wistfully, yet keenly, into the beautiful face,--"it has occurred to me that perhaps _you_ might have some influence over him."

"I!" exclaimed Marion. For a moment her surprise was so great that she could say nothing more. Then, with the realization of his meaning, a wave of color came into her face. "I have no reason to suppose that I have the least influence with Mr. Earle," she said. "If I had, I would gladly use it for the ends about which you are so anxious."

"I am sure of that," observed Mr. Singleton, significantly. "Well, all I can say is that nothing would please me more than for you to acquire such influence. If you should acquire it, and if you should consent to use it always, I would be a very delighted old man. You understand me, I see, so I need say no more. Now go and sing for me."