Chapter II

Probably the speaker had seldom been more surprised than when Marion rose quickly, and, the last glow from the west falling over her, he found himself face to face with a stranger.

Even to the most self-possessed there is something a little embarrassing when tender tones or caressing words are heard by ears for which they were not intended; and, although there was nothing specially significant in the letter of this speech, its spirit had been eloquent enough to make Mr. Paul Rathborne start with confusion when he discovered his mistake.

"I beg pardon," he said, a little hastily--"I did not observe--that is" (with a sudden grasp of self-possession), "I thought I was addressing my cousin. I suppose I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Lynde?"

"Yes," answered Marion. "And you, I presume, are Mr. Rathborne?"

He bowed. "I am glad to perceive that you have heard of me."

"Oh!" said Marion, "in knowing Helen, one knows all the people that make up her home circle. I assure you I feel intimately acquainted with yourself and all the Morleys, and the children--"

"And probably the horses and the dogs," he said as she paused. "I am aware of the comprehensiveness of Helen's affections."

"Her heart is large enough to hold all that she gives a place in it," remarked Marion.

"Oh! no doubt," said Mr. Rathborne. "But, perhaps, if one had one's choice, one would be flattered by more exclusiveness."

Marion glanced at him and thought, "It is evidently in your nature to want to monopolize." But she only said: "I do not think you have reason to complain of your place in Helen's regard."

"I have no thought of complaining," he replied; "I am very grateful for all the regard she is good enough to give me."

The humility of the words could not conceal an arrogance of tone, which did not escape the ear of the listener. At that moment she was as thoroughly convinced as ever afterward that this man perfectly understood how paramount was the place he held in Helen's regard.

"Helen's affection is something for which one may well be grateful," she observed, sincerely enough. "But do you not wish to find her? She is in the garden."

Mr. Rathborne did not stir. "If she is in the garden," he said, "she will no doubt come in presently. And I judge from sounds which I hear in that direction that she is not alone. If you do not object, I will remain here and wait for her."

"Object! Why should I object?" asked Marion. She reseated herself, and was not displeased that Mr. Rathborne drew forward a chair and also sat down. She was aware that he was, in a manner, engaged to Helen--in other words, that their positive engagement had only been deferred on account of Helen's youth; but the fact did not at all detract from the interest he had for her--the interest of a man with wider life and, presumably, wider thoughts than the school-girls who, up to this time, had formed her social atmosphere. It offended her, therefore, that when he spoke next it was in the tone of one addressing a school-girl.

"I suppose, Miss Lynde, that, like Helen, you were very much attached to the convent?"

"It is not at all safe to suppose that I am in any respect like Helen," she replied. "We are very good friends, but exceedingly different in character."

"And therefore in tastes?"

"That follows, does it not? Different characters must have different tastes."

"It certainly seems a natural inference. And so I am to presume that you were _not_ attached to the convent?"

"That is going rather too far. I liked it better than any other school at which I ever was placed. But I am not fond of restraint and subjection; therefore I am glad that my school-days are over."

Mr. Rathborne smiled slightly. Even in the dusk he could see enough of the presence before him to judge that restraint and subjection would indeed be little likely to please this imperial-looking creature.

"I am to congratulate you, then," he said, "on the fact that your school-days are definitely over?"

"Yes, they are definitely over, and it remains now to be seen what schooling life holds for me."

"Certainly a singular girl this!" thought the man, who was well aware that most young ladies had little thought of what schooling life might hold for them. "If I may be permitted to prophesy," he said aloud, "I think that life has in store for you only pleasant experiences."

"That is very kind of you," answered Marion, with a mocking tone in her voice, which was very familiar to her associates; "but I don't know that I have any claim to special exemption from the usual lot of mankind; and certainly pleasant experiences are not the usual lot, unless everyone is very much mistaken."

"People are too much given to sitting down and moaning over the unpleasantness of life, when they might make it otherwise by taking matters into their own hands," said Mr. Rathborne. "But that requires a strong will."

"And something beside will, does it not?"

"Oh! of course the ability to seize opportunity, and make one's self master of it."

"That is what I should like," said Marion, speaking as if to herself: "to seize opportunity. But the opportunity must come in order to be seized."

"There is little doubt but that it will come to you," remarked her companion, more and more impressed.

How far the conversation might have progressed in this personal vein, into which it had so unexpectedly fallen, it is difficult to say; for a spark of congenial sympathy had been already struck between these two people, who a few minutes before had been absolute strangers to each other. But at this point Mrs. Dalton stepped out of the hall and came toward them.

"I thought I heard your voice, Paul," she said, as Rathborne rose to shake hands with her; "and I wondered to whom you were talking, since I knew the girls were in the garden. But this is Marion, is it not?"

"It is Marion," replied that young lady. "I did not go into the garden--I felt too tired,--and Mr. Rathborne found me here a few minutes ago."

"It is somewhat late for an introduction, then," said Mrs. Dalton, "since you have already made acquaintance."

"Not a very difficult task," observed Rathborne. "I have heard a good deal of Miss Lynde, and she was good enough to say that my name was not altogether unknown to her."

"Helen talks so much of her friends that they could hardly avoid knowing one another," resumed Mrs. Dalton. "But pray go and tell her, Paul, that it is time to come in to tea."

"With pleasure," said Mr. Rathborne, departing with an alacrity which seemed to imply that only politeness had prevented his going before.

At least so Mrs. Dalton interpreted the quickness of his step, as she looked after him for an instant, and then turned to Marion. "I suppose, my dear," she said, "that you have heard Helen speak of Paul very often?"

"Very often indeed," answered Marion.

"And you are probably aware that if I had not refused to allow her to bind herself while she was so young, they would be engaged?"

Marion signified that she had also heard this--exhaustively.

"The responsibilities of a parent are very great," said Mrs. Dalton, with a sigh. "I certainly have every reason to trust Paul, who has been as helpful as a son to me in all business matters since my husband's death--he is my nephew by marriage, you know--yet I hesitate when I think of trusting Helen's happiness to him. She is so very affectionate that I do not think she could be happy with any one who did not feel as warmly as herself. Now, Paul is very reserved in character and cold in manner. I fear that he would chill and wound her--after a while."

"But is it not a rule that people like best those who are most opposite to them in character?" asked Marion, whose interest in Helen's love-affair began to quicken a little since she had met its hero.

"I believe it is a general rule," replied Mrs. Dalton, dubiously; "but I distrust its particular application in this case. And, then, they are not of the same religion."

"Oh!" exclaimed Marion, carelessly, "that surely does not matter--with liberal people."

"It matters with Catholics," said Mrs. Dalton. "Although not a Catholic yourself, you ought to know that."

"I know that people who have always been Catholics feel so. But you, who were once a Protestant--I should think that you would be more broad."

"Converts are the last people to be broad in that respect," said Mrs. Dalton. "They have known too much of the bitterness of differing feeling on that subject. But you do not understand, so we will not discuss it. I forgot for a moment that you are separated from us in faith."

"I am separated from you because I do not hold _your_ faith," said Marion, frankly; "but I am not separated because I hold any other. All religions are alike to me, except that I respect the Catholic most. But I could never belong to it."

"Never is a long day," observed Mrs. Dalton. "You do not know what light the future may hold for you. However, we will talk of this another time; for here come the garden party."

They came through the twilight as she spoke, the light dresses of the girls showing with pretty effect against the dark masses of shrubbery, and their gay young voices ringing out, with accompaniment of laughter, through the still air.

"Marion!--where is Marion?" cried Helen, as she reached the veranda. "Oh! there you are still, under the vines! Here is a greeting from the garden that you would not go to see."

It was a cluster of odorous roses--splendid jacqueminots--which fell into Marion's lap, and which she took up and pinned against her white dress. Their glowing color lent a fresh touch of brilliancy to her appearance when Paul Rathborne found himself opposite to her at the well-lighted tea-table. The twilight had revealed to him that she was handsome, but he had not been prepared for such beauty as now met and fascinated his gaze. He regarded her with a wonder which was as evident as his admiration, and not less flattering to her vanity. For Helen's confidences had enabled her to form a very correct idea of this cold, self-contained man; and she felt that to move him so much was no small earnest of her power to move others.

Meanwhile she glanced at him now and then with critical observation, seeing a keen face, with deep-set eyes under a brow more high than broad; a thin-lipped mouth, which did not smile readily; and a general air of reserve and power. It was a face not without attraction to the girl, whose own spirit was sufficiently ambitious and arrogant to recognize and respond to the signs of such a spirit in another. "He is a man who means to make his way in the world, and who will use poor little Helen as a stepping-stone," she thought. "A cold, supercilious, selfish man--the kind of man who despises women, I fancy. Let us see if he will despise _me_."

There was not much reason to suspect Mr. Rathborne of such presumption. Almost his first remark to Helen, when they were together after tea, was, "What a remarkable person your cousin seems to be!"

"Marion?" said Helen. "Yes, she is so remarkable that Claire and I have often said that she is made for some great destiny. She looks like an empress, does she not?"

Rathborne laughed. "She has a very imperial air, certainly," he said; "and she is strikingly beautiful. She might have the world at her feet if she had a fortune. But I suppose she has very little?"

"None at all, I think," answered Helen, simply. "And it has embittered her. She values money too highly."

"It is difficult to do that," said Rathborne, dryly; "and Miss Lynde knows what is fitted for her when she desires wealth. I never saw a woman who seemed more evidently born for it."

"I wish I could give her my fortune," said Helen, sincerely. "She hates poverty so much, while I would not at all mind being poor."

An echo of the wish shot through Rathborne's mind, but he only said, with one of his faint, flitting smiles: "My dear Helen, you are not exactly a judge of the poverty you have never tried. And, while it is very good of you to wish to give your cousin your fortune, there can be no doubt that with such a face she will not go through life without finding one."

Helen looked across the room at the beautiful face of which he spoke. In her heart no pang of envy stirred, only honest admiration as she said: "I knew you would admire her!"

"Admire her--yes," Paul answered; "one could hardly fail to do that. But I do not think I shall like her. I like amiable, gentle women, and I am very certain that not even _you_ can say that Miss Lynde is amiable and gentle."