Marion Arleigh's Penance by Charlotte M. Braeme

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"Yes; I do not believe he knows what peace or rest is. He never sleeps
or enjoys himself as other people do."

"Why not?" asked the girl, to whom this flattery was most sweet and
pleasant.

"His life is one long thought of you. If you were poor, he would not
mind; there would be some hope of winning you; he would not let any
other barrier than riches stand before him--that is one that honorable
men cannot climb."

"I do not see it," said Miss Arleigh.

"Because you do not know the world. You are so noble in mind yourself,
you do not even understand want of nobility in others. Do you not know
that there are many people who would pretend to love you for the sake of
your fortune?"

"I wish I had no fortune," said the young girl, wistfully. "How shall I
know, Adelaide, when any one loves me for myself?"

"When they are, like Allan, willing to die rather than to own their
love; willing to suffer everything and anything rather than be
suspected of fortune-hunting."

"No one could suspect your brother Allan of that."

"No one who knows him. But, Miss Arleigh, what would your guardian, Lord
Ridsdale, say--what would Miss Carleton say--if Allan went to them, as I
know he wants to do, and asked permission to work for you, to try and
win you? Listen to me--I am telling you the truth. They would not be
content with insult, with dismissing him ignominiously, but they would
mar his future. You do not know the power vested in the hands of the
rich and mighty. An artist must court public opinion, and if one in the
position of Lord Ridsdale was his determined enemy and foe, he could
expect nothing but ruin."

"That is not fair," said the heiress, thoughtfully.

"Then again, if you were to tell Miss Carleton, she would dismiss my
brother, she would complain of him, she would ruin him as completely as
it was in human power to do so. The world is not generous; it is only
noble souls that believe in noble souls. Such people as those would
always persist in considering Allan a fortune-hunter and nothing more."

All of which arguments Miss Lyster intended to impress upon her pupil's
mind, for this one great object of keeping Allan's wooing a secret. If
that could be until Miss Arleigh was twenty-one, and then she could be
persuaded into marrying him, their fortunes were made.

That was her chief object. She knew Miss Arleigh was naturally frank,
open and candid; that she had an instinctive dislike of all underhand
behavior; that she could never be induced to look with favor on anything
mean; but if the romance and generous truth of her character could be
played upon, they were safe.

She had the gift of eloquence, this woman who so cruelly betrayed her
trust. She talked well, and the most subtle and clever of arguments came
to her naturally. Her words had with them a charm and force that the
young could not resist. Let those who misuse such talents remember they
must answer to the Most High God for them. Adelaide Lyster used hers to
betray a trust, that ought to have been held most sacred. She cared
little how she influenced Marion's mind. She cared little what false
notions, what false philosophy, what wrong ideas, she taught her,
provided only she could win her interests, her liking and love for
Allan.

CHAPTER IV.

Miss Carleton had been with her young ladies for a promenade--people
less elegant would have said for a walk--Miss Carleton rejoiced in long
words. "Young ladies, prepare for a promenade," was her daily formula.
They had just returned, and Miss Arleigh missed Adelaide Lyster.

"Why did not Miss Lyster go out with us today?" she asked of another
governess.

"She complained of headache, and seemed quite out of spirits," was the
reply.

Marion hastened to her; she was of a most loving disposition, this
motherless girl--tender and kind of heart, and there was no one for her
to love--no father, mother, sister or brother; she was very rich, but
quite alone in the world. She hastened to Miss Lyster's room, and found
that young lady completely prostrated by what she called a nervous
headache.

"You have been crying, Adelaide," said Marion. "It's no use either
denying it or turning your head so that I cannot see you. What is the
matter?"

"I wish you had not come here, Marion. I did not want you to know my
trouble."

"But I must know it," and the girl's arms were clasped around her. She
stooped down and kissed the treacherous face. "I must know it," she
continued, impetuously; "when I say must, Adelaide, I mean it."

"I dare not tell you--I cannot tell you, Miss Arleigh. It would have
been well for my brother had he never seen your face."

"You have heard from him, then--it is about him?" and the fair face
flushed.

"Yes, it is about him. I have had a letter from him this morning. He
says that he must give up his appointment here and go abroad--that he
cannot bear the torture of seeing you; and if he does go abroad, I shall
never see him again."

The lips that had been caressing her quivered slightly.

"He is all I have in the world," continued the governess; "the only
gleam of light or love in my troubled life. Oh, Marion! if he goes from
me--goes to hide his sorrow and his love where I shall never see him
again--what will become of me? I am in despair. The very thought of it
breaks my heart."

And Miss Lyster sobbed as though she meant every word of it. The heiress
bent over her.

"What can I do to help you? I am so sorry, Adelaide."

"There is only one thing you could do," replied the other, "and I dare
not even mention it. My brother must die. Oh, fatal hour in which he
ever saw the beauty of that face!"

"Tell me what the one thing is, Adelaide. If it is possible, I will do
it."

"I dare not mention it. It is useless to name it. Men like my brother
throw their genius, their life and love, under the feet of girls like
you; but they meet with no return."

"Tell me what it is," repeated the other, her generous heart touched by
the thought of receiving so much and giving so little.

"If you would but consent to see him--I know you will not, but it is the
only means of saving him--if you expressed but the faintest shadow of a
wish, he would stay; I know he would."

Marion hesitated.

"How can I interfere?" she said. "How can I express any such wish to
him?"

"I knew you would not. That is why I did not care to tell you my
trouble. Why should you--so rich, so happy, so beautiful--why should you
interest yourself in the fate of people like us? My brother is a genius,
not a lord."

"I wish," cried the girl, impatiently, "that you would not be always
talking to me about my riches. I cannot help them. You make me wretched.
It is not because I am rich that I hesitate--how absurd you are,
Adelaide!--but because your brother is a stranger to me, and I have no
right to interfere in his life."

"Is that all? I fancied you considered him so far beneath you. Genius
is Godlike, but it is not money. Ah, Marion, if that be all, save him!
Save him! He is all I have in the world! He is so young, so sensitive,
so clever, so proud, you could influence him with half a word. If you
said to him, 'Stay,' he would remain, though kings and emperors should
summon him. Will you see him, and say that one word, Marion, for my
sake?"

It was very pleasant to know that one word from her could influence the
life of this great unknown genius; very pleasant to believe that she was
loved so dearly, so entirely, that even an emperor could not take the
man who worshiped her from her side. It seems weak that she should so
easily believe. Insight gives one a false estimate of her character; but
there are many things to be considered before judging her. She was
romantic in the highest degree; she was all idealty and poetry. She had
no idea of the realities of life; she had the vaguest possible idea that
there was wickedness in the world, but that ever deceit or treachery
should come near her was an idea that never entered her romantic mind.
She was too old to be at school; had her mother been living, she would
have been removed from there. She would have had friends and admirers,
her love and affection would have found proper objects, and the great
calamity of her life would have been averted. Heaven help and guide any
foolish, romantic girl left without the guidance of mother or friend!

She thought nothing of the impropriety of meeting the young artist
unknown to any one. She remembered only the romance of it--a genius, a
handsome young genius was dying for love of her, for her sake; he was
going away, to leave home, friends and country, going to die in exile,
simply for love of her; to lay down all the brilliant hopes of his life,
to give up all his dreams, all his plans, because he found her so fair
he could no longer live in her presence. Before she made any further
remark she began to think whether any of her favorite heroines had ever
been in this delightful situation, and how it was best to behave with a
genius dying for her. She could not remember, but she knew there were
innumerable instances of queens having loved their subjects--to wit, the
stately Elizabeth and Essex. She, in the eyes of this poor artist and
his sister, was a queen--it would not hurt her to stoop from her high
estate. She turned her fair, troubled face to the astute woman by her
side.

"Even if I could do him any good by seeing him," she said, "how could it
be managed?"

Miss Lyster's stare of admiration was something wonderful to see. "Would
you be so noble, so generous? Oh, Miss Arleigh, you will save my life
and his! Would you really see him, and tell him he had better stay? How
good you are! Do you know, I could kneel here at your feet to thank you.
If you are willing, I can make all arrangements--I only needed your
consent."

The excitement was a pleasant break in the monotony of school life. How
little did Marion understand those with whom she had to deal! She had
promised to grant this interview as something of a condescension. Miss
Lyster managed her so skilfully that before it took place she had
learned to long for it.

The farce of Allan's illness was kept up. For two days the pupils were
deprived of their lessons through the indisposition of their master.

"I do not know that your kindness will be needed after all," said
Adelaide, sadly. "My brother is very ill; he may not recover. Oh, what a
fatal day it was when he first saw you, Miss Arleigh!"

Now, Marion had often rehearsed this interview. She had pictured herself
as taking the part of a very dignified queen; of saying to this
interesting subject who was dying for love of her, "Stay." She imagined
his delight at her condescension, his sister's gratitude for her
kindness; and now, behold, nothing of the kind was wanting--the pretty
role she had sketched out for herself required no playing.

"I do not think I need make any arrangement for the little interview you
promised my brother," said Miss Lyster to the simple girl. "I have had a
note from him this morning. He is in better health, but he is in
despair, and he cannot hide it. He absolutely refuses to believe that
you have consented to see him. Unless you tell him so yourself, he will
never believe it."

"But how can I tell him?" asked the girl.

"Write on a piece of paper, 'Come at the hour and place your sister
appoints. I wish to see you.' Then he will come. I am writing tonight,
and will enclose the note."

It would rather take from her queenlike attitude, she thought; but as
she had promised the kindness, it would not be graceful to dispute as to
how it should be granted; so, under the guidance of the woman to whom
her innocent youth was entrusted, she sealed her fate with her own
hands.

CHAPTER V.

"How am I to thank you?" said Adelaide Lyster to the girl she had
betrayed. "I have a letter from Allan, and he says the very thought of
seeing you has given him a fresh life--fresh energy. I have never read
anything so rapturous in my life. Do you wish to see the letter?"

As Marion Arleigh read the passionate, poetical words that had been
written expressly for her, her face flushed. How wonderful it was to
hold a man's life in her hands--to sway a genius so that her nod meant
stay or go, her least words meant happiness or misery! She looked around
with something of pity for other girls who had not this new and
wonderful sensation.

"A life in her hands!" There came to her, young as she was, a vague idea
of woman's power for good or for evil. A cruel or cold word from her,
and the artist would go in his misery only to seek death in some far-off
land. A kind word, and he would remain--his genius would have its sway,
and he would paint pictures that the world should glory in.

"I have arranged it all," said Miss Lyster. "Miss Carleton is going
to-day to that grand dinner-party at Macdonald's. She has given orders
that the young ladies shall go over to Herrington, and take some
refreshments with them--it will be a picnic on a small scale. You can
excuse yourself from going. I will volunteer to remain with you, and
toward sunset, we will walk through the old orchard. Allan will await us
there."

The girl's heart beat; it was a romantic dream after all--that strange,
wonderful reality; the interview she had so often imagined was to take
place at last.

"I cannot tell an untruth," she said to Miss Lyster; "I could not if I
tried. How could I excuse myself from going?"

Adelaide looked slightly shocked.

"I would not ask you to speak untruthfully, not even to save Allan's
life, dearly as I love him," she said. "There is no need. Say you are
not inclined to go. Miss Carleton will not interfere with the whims of
an heiress."

So it was arranged, and everything fell out just as Adelaide Lyster had
foreseen. Miss Carleton did not care to interfere with the whims of a
great heiress like Marion Arleigh.

"By all means, stay at home, my love, if you wish, and Miss Lyster, too.
She is an admirable young person; so prudent, so discreet. I could not
leave you in better hands."

Marion Arleigh lived afterward to be presented at Court, but she never
again felt the same diffidence, the same trepidation, as when, with her
false friend by her side, she went down the steps that led to the
orchard. The hedge was high and thick, tall trees formed a complete
barrier between the grounds and the high road, no strangers or passersby
could be seen. Miss Lyster had chosen her time well. She knew that in
the lady superintendent's absence the servants would hold high revels;
there was no fear of interruption.

In after life Marion Arleigh remembered every detail of that evening. It
was May then, and the hedge was white with hawthorn; there was a gleam
of gold from the laburnums, and the scent of the lilacs filled the air;
the apple trees were all in blossom, the birds were singing, the sun
shining, warmth and fragrance and beauty lay all around her.

Far down the orchard, standing sketching a picturesque old tree, was the
artist, Allan Lyster. He looked up as the sound of light footsteps
rustled in the grass. When he saw who was coming he flung down his
pencils and advanced, hat in hand.

There was something graceful and poetical, after all, in the way in
which he went up to Miss Arleigh and knelt lightly on one knee.

"I would kiss the hem of your robe if I dared," he said. "How am I to
thank you?"

Then he sprang up and took his sister's hand in his. He allowed no time
for confusion and embarrassment--he was too clever for that.

"How am I to thank you, Miss Arleigh?" he said. "If the sun had fallen
from the heavens, I could not have felt, more surprise than your
kindness has caused me. My sister tells me you are good enough not to be
angry at my presumption."

Miss Lyster laughed.

"I think, Allan," she said, "that I shall leave you to listen to Miss
Arleigh's lecture alone. She will be able to say harder words to you if
I am not by to listen. I will see if I can finish your picture."

She walked over to the tree where paper and pencils lay, leaving them
alone, and though she was a woman, and young--though she knew that she
was most foully betraying a girl whose youth and innocence might have
pleaded for her, she had not even a passing thought of pity. "Let Allan
win the fortune if he can. He will make better use of it than she
could."

"You are so good to me," murmured the young artist, his dark eyes
flashing keenly for one-half a minute over that beautiful face. "I am at
a loss for words."

Allan Lyster was gifted with a most musical voice, and he understood
perfectly well how to make the most use of it. The pathos with which he
said those words was wonderful to hear.

"I am glad to see you," she said. "Your sister tells me you think of
going abroad."

"Has she told you why?" he asked eagerly.

Marion's face grew crimson. The beautiful eyes dropped from his. She
drew back ever so little, but another keen, sharp glance told him she
was not angry; only shy and timid.

"You are so good to me," he continued, with passionate eagerness, "that
I am not afraid to tell you. I must go; life here is torture to me; it
is torture to see you, to hear you speak, to worship you with a heart
full of fire, and yet to know that the sun is not farther from me than
you, to know that if I laid my life at your feet you would only laugh at
me and think me mad. It is torture so great that exile and death seem
preferable."

He saw her lips quiver, and her eyes, half raised, had in them no angry
light.

"You are a great lady," he said, "rich, noble, powerful. I am a poor
artist. I have but one gift--that is genius. And I have dared, fired by
such a beauty as woman never had before, to raise my eyes to you. They
are dazzled, blinded, and I must suffer for my rashness; and yet--"

He paused, gave another keen glance, felt perfectly satisfied that what
he was saying was well received, then went on:

"Artists before now have loved great ladies, and by their genius have
immortalized them. But I am mad to say such things. This is the age of
money-worship, and art is no longer valued as in those times."

"I do not value money," she said, in a clear, sweet voice. "I value many
things a thousand times more highly."

"You are an angel!" he cried. "Even though my love tortures me, I would
not change it for the highest pleasures other men enjoy. The poets learn
by suffering what they teach in song; so it will be with me. Sorrow will
make me a great artist; whereas, if I had been a happy man, I might
never, perhaps, have risen much above the common level. I am resigned to
suffer all my life."

"I do not like to hear you speak so," she said. "Life will not be all
suffering."

"I have raised my eyes, looked at the sun, and it has dazzled me," he
said. "Ah, lady, I have had such dreams, of love that overleaped all
barriers, as Art has rendered loveliness immortal for all time. I have
dreamed of loves such as Petrarch had for Laura, Dante for Beatrice, and
I wake to call myself mad for indulging in such dreams."

She was deeply interested. This was exactly as heros spoke in novels;
they always had a lofty contempt for money, and talked as though love
was the only and universal good. She looked half shyly at him; he was
very handsome, this young artist who loved her so, and very sad. How
dearly he loved her, and how strange it was! In all this wide world
there was not one who cared for her as he did; the thought seemed to
bring her nearer to him. No one had ever talked of loving her before.
Perhaps the beauty of the May evening softened her and inclined her
heart to him; for after a few minutes' silence she said to him:

"We are forgetting the very object for which I consented to see you."

CHAPTER VI.

"It is no wonder," replied Allan Lyster. "I forget everything in
speaking to you. You do well, lady, in making me remember myself."

"Do not mistake me," she said gently. "I only thought time is flying,
and I have not said yet what I promised your sister I would say."

They had walked down the orchard, and they stood now under the spreading
boughs of a large apple tree--the pink and white blossoms made the
loveliest frame for that most fair face. She was lovely as the blossoms
themselves.

"I feel like a criminal," said Allan Lyster; "and as though you were my
judge. I tremble to know what you have to say."

"Yet it is not very terrible, Mr. Lyster. Your sister is my dearest
friend, and she tells me that you are thinking of going abroad. She is
very miserable over it. She fancies she should never see you again. I
promised her that I would persuade you to stay."

His face flushed--his eyes flashed--he bent over her.

"See what little white hands yours are," he said; "yet they hold a
life--a strong man's life. If you bade me stay, I would remain though
death were the penalty. If you bade me go, I would go and never look
upon a familiar face again."

"I do not like to say go, or stay," she replied, hesitatingly. "It is a
serious thing to interfere with a man's life."

"I have dared already more than I ever dreamed of daring. I have told
how rashly I have ventured to raise my eyes to the sun--you know my
presumption. I have dared to kneel at your feet, and tell you that you
are the star of my idolatry, the source of all my inspiration. You know
that, yet you will not punish my presumption by telling me to go?"

"I will not," she replied, gently.

"Then you are not angry with me? I did not know life held such happiness
as that. You know I love you? You are not angry?"

A sudden breeze stirred the apple blossoms, and they fell like a shower
on her fair head.

"You must pardon me if I am beside myself with joy. Looking on your
face, I grow intoxicated with your beauty, as men do with rare wines.
Ah, lady! in the years to come and in the great world people may love
you; but you shall look, and look in vain, for a love so true, so deep,
so devoted as mine."

"I believe it," she replied.

"You believe it, yet you are not angry with me? You hold my life in your
hands yet will not bid me go?"

He bent over her, his handsome face was glowing, his dark eyes flashing
fire.

"I could fancy myself in a dream," he said; "it is too strange, too
sweet to be true. There must be some intoxication in these apple
blossoms. Dare I ask you one more grace?"

"I have not been very unkind," she said.

"Will you let me sometimes see you? I will not presume upon your
kindness. Your face is to me what sunshine is to flowers. Do not turn
its light from me."

"You see me at the lessons," she said.

"Pardon me, I do not. I never dare to look at you; if I did, Miss
Carleton would soon know my secret. I am an artist, practiced to admire.
I may say what in others would be simple impertinence. You look so
beautiful, Miss Arleigh, with the sunlight falling on you through the
apple blossoms. Will you let me make a picture of you, just as you are
now? I could paint it well, for my whole heart would be in the work."

"I am willing," she said.

"And you will let me keep the picture when it is finished, and once or
twice before the lovely summer fades you will come out here and see me
again?"

"Yes," she said, "I will come again."

"I shall keep those few penciled words you sent me until I die," he
said, "and then they shall be buried with me."

Allan Lyster was a wise general; he knew exactly when it was time to
retreat. He would fain have lingered by her side talking to her, looking
in her lovely face, but prudence told him that he had said enough. He
looked across at the trees and signed to his sister, unseen and unknown
to Miss Arleigh. Adelaide, quick to take the hint, joined them at once.

"I shall not show you my sketch, Allan," she said laughingly; "it will
not show well by the side of yours. Marion, we must go. Have you
accomplished my heart's desire--persuaded my brother to stay?"

"He did not want much persuasion," she replied, suddenly remembering
with surprise how little had been said about the matter.

"I hope Allan has made no blunder," thought the sister; aloud she said,
"I know it. I knew that one look from you would do all that my prayers
failed to accomplish. We must go, Marion; it is time to re-enter the
house."

"Miss Arleigh," said Allan Lyster, "when I wake to-morrow, I shall fancy
all this but a dream. Will you give me something to make me remember
that it is indeed a happy reality?"

"What shall I give you?" asked the girl.

"You have held that spray of apple blossoms in your hand all the
evening," he said, "give me that."

She laughed and held it out to him.

"Thank you," he said; "now that you have touched it it ought not to
die."

"Do all artists talk like you, Mr. Lyster?"

"When the same subject inspires them," he replied, and then Adelaide
reminded them again that time was flying, and they must be gone.

A few more minutes and the handsome young artist was walking quickly
down the high road. He had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. He
felt as sure of winning the beautiful young heiress as though he had
placed already a wedding ring upon her finger. He laughed to himself to
think how easy the task was; so easy, in fact, that he felt a touch of
contempt for that which was so easily won.

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