Miss Lynde, on her part, felt as if she would never reach the end of the difficulties which seemed to evolve out of one another, according to a process of evolution with which we are all familiar. Had her passionate desire for wealth created a sort of moral Frankenstein, which would continue to pursue her? When, after a struggle known only to herself, she had decided to resign the fortune, she had thought that she cast away all perplexities arising out of it; but now it appeared that she had resigned only the money, and that the difficulties and perplexities remained. For, as clearly as any one else, she perceived—what indeed George Singleton made no effort to conceal—the object of his constant and assiduous attentions. The fortune she had given up was to be offered her again: she would again be forced to make a difficult choice.
For all that has been written of Marion Lynde has been written to little purpose if any one imagines that wealth had lost its glamour in her eyes, or that her old ambitions were dead within her. They had been for a time subdued,—for a time she had realized that one might be crushed by the weight of a granted prayer; but the old desires and the old attraction still remained strong enough to prove a potent force in the hour of temptation.
And she began to feel that it might be a temptation to regain in the most entire manner the fortune she had resigned; to cast one glance of triumphant scorn at Rathborne, who had fancied himself scheming for her downfall; to receive Mrs. Singleton's cousinly congratulations; and, above all, to prove to Brian Earle how easily she could console herself for his desertion—how readily another man offered the homage he had withdrawn. Yes, all these things were temptations; for the sway of the world, of natural inclinations and passions, was still strong in this soul, which had leaned toward higher things without embracing them.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Mariondid not in the least relax her preparations for departure, and she gave no sign to Mr. Singleton of perceiving the end which he had in view. They progressed very far toward intimacy in the course of their long interviews; but it was an intimacy which Marion regulated, and to which she gave its tone, preserving without difficulty command of the situation. Yet even while she commanded it, an instinct told her that the hour would come very soon when this man would assert himself; when her time of control would be over, and the feeling that betrayed itself in his eyes and voice would find expression in a manner beyond her power to regulate. Nevertheless, she was hardly prepared for the declaration when it came one day, abruptly and without anticipation on her part.
"I think, Miss Lynde," said Singleton, "that it is time you and I understood each other—or, at least, that I understoodyou; for I am pretty sure that you understandmethoroughly. You know perfectly well that I am in love with you. Do you intend to marry me?"
"Mr. Singleton!" exclaimed Marion, startled and considerably discomposed. "Do I intend—" she repeated. "How could I possibly have any intention in—in such a matter? That is a very extraordinary way of speaking."
"Is it?" said Singleton. "But you do not expect an ordinary way of speaking from me; for do you not make me understand every day how much of a savage I am? What can I do except ask your intentions? For you cannot say that you do not know I am in your hands to be dealt with as you like."
"I know nothing of the kind," she answered, hastily. "Why should I know it? I have been glad that we should be friends, but beyond that—"
"Do not talk nonsense!" he interrupted, somewhat roughly. "You are too clever a woman not to have been aware from the first that there was no friendship about it. As soon as I saw you, I made up my mind that I would marry you if you would agree to it. And why should you not agree? It will settle all difficulties about the fortune, and I am not really a bad fellow at heart. I assure you of that."
"I think I know very well what kind of fellow you are," said Marion, smiling in spite of herself. "Certainly not one who is formed on a very conventional model. I like you very much—I am sure you know that,—but I have no intention of marrying you."
It cost her something of an effort to say this—to put away, finally as it were, the glittering prize that life had cast in her way. But, thus brought face to face with the necessity for decision, she found that no other answer was possible to her. Yet the form of words that she chose did not convey her meaning in an unalterable sense to the man watching her with such keen, brilliant eyes.
"You have no intention of marrying me!" he repeated. "Does that mean that you will not form any such intention—that you will not take the subject into consideration?"
"There is no reason why I should," she replied. "It is best that you should think no more of it."
"I can not agree to that," he said. "On the contrary, it seems to me best, from every point of view, that I should continue to think of it, and endeavor to bring it to pass. I warn you that I am not a man who is easily daunted. Unless you intend to marry some one else, I shall continue my efforts to induce you to marry me."
"Not if I tell you there is no use in such efforts?" said Marion.
"You can not possibly tell whether there would be use in them or not," he persisted, "unless you are decided with regard to some other man. If so, I hope you will tell me."
"There is no other man in question," she said, coldly. "I may surely be supposed to know my own mind without being bound to any one."
"And I know mine," he replied, "so positively that, until you are bound to some one else, I shall not relinquish the hope of inducing you to marry me. I give you fair warning of that."
"Really, Mr. Singleton," said Marion, who hardly knew whether to be vexed or amused, "you are a very singular person. Are you not aware that a man must abide by the woman's decision in such a matter as this?"
"I am not so uncivilized as you imagine," he answered. "Of course I know it. But everywhere and always he has the right of endeavoring to change that decision if he can. And I have a double reason for desiring to change yours. I not only want to marry you, but I also want you to have your share of my fortune."
"I have no share in it," she said, haughtily—for surely such a persistent suitor as this promised to be very troublesome;—"you know that well, and you know also that I have forbidden you to speak of it to me."
"Henceforth I will endeavor to obey you," he answered, with the courtesy which now and then contrasted oddly with the usual abruptness of his manner. "But you can not forbid me to think of it—nor of you."
"I hope," she said, "that when I go away you will very soon cease to think of me."
He smiled. "Do you think," he asked, "that I shall not follow you? The way to Europe is as open to me as to you."
"But if I forbid it?" she cried, with a sudden sense of dismay.
"You have no right to forbid it," he answered, quietly. "I have no intention of accompanying you, and I have surely been guilty of nothing which could lead you to disown my acquaintance should we meet in Rome or elsewhere."
Marion fancied that after his declaration, and the refusal with which it had been met, George Singleton would leave Scarborough, since he had certainly no business to detain him there. But that gentleman proved himself to be of another opinion. He not only remained in Scarborough, but he continued his visits with the same regularity which had characterized them before. Partly vexed, partly amused, Marion, nevertheless, took precautions to guard against any embarrassing renewal of his suit. She ceased to receive him alone, and whenever it was possible she turned him over to Helen for entertainment. To this he apparently did not object in the least. He had hardly met Miss Morley before, and her soft gentleness charmed him. It was the type of womanhood best suited to his own passionate, impulsive nature; and he yielded to its influence with anabandonthat surprised himself.
"You have no idea what an effect you have upon me," he said to her on one occasion. "When I come into your presence I am like a cat that is smoothed the right way—you put me into harmony and accord with all the world."
It was impossible not to laugh at the frankness of this assertion, as well as the homeliness of the comparison. "I am very glad to hear that my presence has a good effect upon you," said Helen; "although I do not know why it should be so."
"I suppose some people would call it magnetism," he answered; "but I think it is simply owing to the fact that your nature is so placid and gentle that you exercise a calming influence upon the passions of others."
"My nature is not so placid and gentle as you imagine, perhaps," she said, with something of a shadow stealing over her face. "I have passions too."
"Have you?" he asked, rather incredulously. "Well, if so they must be of a very mild order, or else you understand managing them in a wonderful manner. I wish you would teach me how to manage mine."
She looked at him with her blue eyes, and shook her head. "I am afraid you would not care to learn the only thing that I could teach," she said.
"Why not? I think that I should like to learn anything that you would teach."
"Perhaps, then, if our acquaintance lasts long enough, I may take you at your word some day," she replied, smiling.
In saying this she thought herself very safe; for she had little idea that their association would outlast the day on which Marion left Scarborough. She knew that the latter had been offered the opportunity of regaining her lost fortune in the most legitimate and satisfactory way, and had little doubt but that the matter would end by her accepting George Singleton.
"For Marion was never meant to be poor," she said to herself; "and he really seems to have a great deal of good in him—much more than one could have fancied. And he takes her treatment of him very nicely. It is kind of him to seem to like my society, instead of finding me a dreadful bore."
She said as much as this to Marion, who laughed. "There is very good reason for his not finding you a bore," Marion replied. "He enjoys your society much more than mine—it suits him better. I can see that very plainly. In fact, the thing is, that he and I are too much alike to assimilate well. We are both too fiery, too impulsive in our natures and strong in our passions. You are the counteracting influence that we need. Instinct tells him so, as experience tells me."
"Marion, what utter nonsense!"
"So far from that, the very best sense, my dear. There is only one person who has a more beneficial influence upon me than you have. That is Claire, and I am going to her. If Mr. Singleton is wise he will stay with you."
"If I thought you were in earnest in saying such a thing as that, you would really provoke me," said Helen, gravely.
"Then you may be sure that I am not in earnest," cried Marion; "for I would do anything sooner than provoke you. No man in the world is worth a single vexed thought between you and me."
It was a few days after this that, everything being at last settled, she finally left the place where she had gained and lost a fortune,—where she had sounded some depths of experience and learned some lessons of wisdom that could not soon be forgotten.
"Marion," said Helen the evening before her departure, "I am going to have a Mass said for my intention to-morrow morning—and, of course, that means you. Will you not come to the church?"
"With pleasure," answered the other, quickly. "Indeed I am not so absolutely a heathen but that I meant to go, in any event. I am setting out anew in life, as it were; and I should like to ask God to bless this second beginning, as I certainly did not ask Him to bless the first."
"Then you will be at the church at eight o'clock?" said Helen. "And afterward breakfast with me, so that you will not need to return here before meeting your train. I should like the last bread that you break in Scarborough to be broken with me."
"It shall be exactly as you wish," observed Marion, touched by the request, which meant more, she knew, than appeared on the surface. For it was not only that Helen wished to renew the link of hospitality—not only that she desired, as she said, that the last bread broken by Marion in Scarborough should be broken with her in token of their renewed amity,—but she wished to show to all the world that had so curiously watched the course of events in which the beautiful stranger was concerned, that their friendly and cousinly relations were unchanged. All this Marion understood without words.
Eight o'clock the next morning found her in the church. As she acknowledged, she had asked no blessing of God on her former beginning of life—that life which had come to such utter failure in every respect; and in the realization of this failure much of her proud self-confidence had forsaken her. She had asked only that opportunity should be given, and she had felt within herself the power to win all that she desired. Opportunityhadbeen given, and she had ended by losing everything, saving only the remnant of her self-respect and Helen's generous affection. These thoughts came to her with force as she knelt in the little chapel, knowing that she was going forth to a new life with diminished prospects of worldly success, but with a deeper knowledge of herself, of the responsibilities of existence, and of the claims of others, than she had possessed before.
Then she remembered how she had knelt in this same place with Brian Earle, and felt herself drawn near to the household of faith. It had been an attraction which had led to nothing, because it had been founded on human rather than on divine love. Now that the human love was lost, had the divine no meaning left? The deep need of her soul answered this; and when she bent her head as the priest at the altar offered the Holy Sacrifice, it was with a more real act of faith and worship than she had made on that day when it seemed as if but a step divided her from the Church of God.
Mass over, she went to say a few words of farewell to Father Byrne, and then accompanied Helen home. It had been a long time since she entered her aunt's house; and the recollections of her first coming into it, and of the welcome which had then met her, seemed to rush upon her as she crossed the threshold. "If it were only to do over again!" she thought, with a pang. When they sat down to breakfast she glanced at the place which she had so often seen Rathborne occupy, and thought that but for her Helen might never have been undeceived, might never have suffered with regard to him. "At least not in the way she has suffered," she said to herself. "In some way, however, she must have suffered sooner or later. Therefore perhaps it is best as it is—for her. But that does not excuse me. If only I might be permitted to make some atonement!"
But atonement is difficult to make in this world, either for our mistakes or our wrong-doing. The logic of life is stern indeed. From certain acts flow certain consequences as inevitably as conclusions proceed from premises or night follows day. It is vain to cry out that we had no such end in view. The end comes despite our protests, and we are helpless in the face of that which springs from our own deed.
These reflections had in great measure become familiar to Marion, especially with regard to the pain she had brought upon Helen. She had been forced to realize clearly that what it would have been easily possible for her to avoid, it was absolutely impossible for her to repair. To Helen's own goodness, generosity and gentleness she owed the relief that had come to her on the subject. Nevertheless, she longed greatly for some means of repairing the injury she had done, the suffering she had caused, and—was it an inspiration which suddenly seemed to suggest to her such a means?
CHAPTER XXIX.
Breakfastover, they went into the familiar sitting-room—for there was still an hour or two before Marion's train was due,—and it was there that Helen said, with a smile: "Mr. Singleton is coming to see you off: I met him yesterday evening after I left you, and he announced his intention of doing so; so I asked him to come here and accompany us to the train. Of course there is noneedof him: the boys will do all that is necessary; but I thought it would look better. People have talked so much about you both, that I would like them to have a public proof that you are really on very good terms."
"You think of everything, Helen," said Marion. "What a wise little head you have!"
"Do you think it is the head?" asked Helen. "I think it is the heart. One feels things rather than thinks them—at least I do."
"I know you do," said her cousin. "It is your heart in the first place; but you must not underrate your head, which certainly has something to do with it."
Helen shook the appendage in question. "Not much," she answered. "I have never fancied that my strong point was in my head."
"Head or heart, you are seldom wrong," said Marion, "when it comes to a practical decision. Whereas I—you know I have been very vain of my cleverness, and yet I am always wrong—no, don't contradict me; I mean exactly what I say, and I have the best possible reason for meaning it. But, Helen, let me ask one favor of you. When Mr. Singleton comes, leave me alone with him for a few minutes. Now mind,onlyfor a few minutes. I have something to say to him, but it will take only a little time to say it."
"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."
"Iknowthat it would be a mistake—a mistake in every way," she said, earnestly. "And I have made so many mistakes already that I cannot add another to the list. Believe me, if you succeeded in persuading me to marry you, it would be a mistake which we would both regret to the end of our lives. For we do not suit each other at all. When you marry you ought to select a woman different altogether from what I am: a woman gentler, yet with more moral strength."
"That may be," he answered, in a meditative tone; "but, then, no other woman can be the one to whom my father has left his fortune, who has generously given it back to me, and with whom I should like to share it."
"That is a feeling which I can understand, and which does you credit," she said. "But do you not see that I could hardly accept your suit on such a ground as that? It would have been better to have kept your fortune than to do that. No, Mr. Singleton: I beg you to think no more of this; I beg you not to follow me with any such thought in your mind. Promise me that you will not."
She leaned toward him in her earnestness, and held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty. George Singleton had something chivalrous in his nature, under all his brusque exterior; and taking the little hand he raised it to his lips.
"The confidence that you have placed in me," he said, "makes it impossible that I can do anything to annoy you. Your request is a command. I shall not follow you."
Her eyes thanked him. "Now I can go in peace, because I shall not have to think that I am misleading any one. However hard or lonely my path in life may be, I want henceforth to keep my conscience clear. I have tasted the bitterness of self-reproach, and I know what it is. Yes, you will stay. You have duties here now, and—and I hope it will not be long before you will find happiness."
He had no opportunity to reply, if he had been inclined to do so. Helen, remembering Marion's urgent request that the minutes allowed for her "few words" might be short, was heard approaching. Her clear, sweet voice gave some orders in the hall, and then she entered the room.
"I grieve to say, Marion, that it is almost time for you to go," she announced. "Ah, how sad parting is!"
Half an hour later, when Marion was borne away from Scarborough, her last backward glance showed her Helen and Singleton standing side by side on the station platform, waving her an adieu; and if she smiled at the sight, it cannot be denied that she also sighed. With her own hand she had closed the door of a possibly brilliant destiny; and, naturally enough, it had never looked so bright as when she said to herself, "That is over finally and forever."
CHAPTER XXX.
Itwas with little pause for sight-seeing on the way that Marion made her journey to Rome. A few days in Paris constituted her only delay; then, flying swiftly down through Italy—reserving until later the pleasure of seeing the beautiful historic cities which she passed—she did not stop again until she found herself within the walls of Rome.
And not even the fact of entering by means of a prosaic railway could lessen the thrill with which she realized that she was indeed within the city of the Cæsars and the Popes—the city that since the beginning of historic time has been the chief center of the earth, the mistress of the world, and the seat of the apostolic throne. It was strange to feel herself in this place of memories, yet to step into a modern railway station, resounding with noise and bustle; but even Rome was forgotten when she found herself in Claire's arms, and Claire's sweet voice bade her welcome.
What followed seemed like a dream—the swift drive through populous streets, with glimpses of stately buildings and narrow, picturesque ways; the passing under a great, sounding arch into a court, where the soft splash of a fountain was heard as soon as the carriage stopped; the ascent of an apparently interminable flight of stone steps, and pausing at length on a landing, where an open door gave access to an ante-chamber, and thence through parting curtains to a longsalon, where a pretty, elderly lady rose to give Marion greeting. This was Claire's kind friend and chaperon, Mrs. Kerr, who said to herself, as she took the young stranger's hand, "What a beautiful creature!"
Marion, on her part, was charmed, not only with Mrs. Kerr, but with all her surroundings. The foreign aspect of everything enchanted her; the Italian servants, the Italian dishes of the collation spread for her, the soft sound of the language,—all entered into and made part of her pleasure. "O Claire!" she said, when presently she was taken to the pretty chamber prepared for her. "I think I am going to be so happy with you—if only you are not disgusted withme, when you hear the story I have to tell you!"
Claire laughed, as she bent and kissed her. "I have not the least fear that I shall be disgusted with you," she said. "You might do wrong things, Marion—things one would blame or censure,—but I am sure that you will never do a mean thing, and it is mean things which disgust one."
"Ah!" said Marion, with a sigh, "do not be too sure. I am not going to possess your good opinion on false pretenses, so you shall hear to-morrow all that has happened since we parted. Prepare your charity, for I shall need it."
And, indeed, on the next day Claire heard with the utmost fullness all that had occurred since the two parted at their convent school. As far as the Rathborne incident was concerned, Marion did not spare herself; and, although Claire looked grave over her self-accusation, she was unable to express any regret that, even at the cost of Helen's suffering, the engagement of the latter to Rathborne should have been ended. "I saw the man only once," she said, "but that was enough to make me distrust him thoroughly. He has a bad face—a face which shows a narrow and cruel nature. I always trembled at the thought of Helen's uniting her life to his. There seemed no possible prospect of happiness for her in such a choice. So I am glad that at almost any cost the engagement—entanglement, or whatever it was—has been ended. And I can not see that your share in it was so very heinous."
"That is because I have not made it clear to you, then," answered Marion. "I, too, always distrusted the man, but I liked his admiration, his homage; it was my first taste of the power for which, you know, I always longed. Indeed, Claire, there are no excuses to be made for me; and if the matter ended well for Helen—as I really believe it did,—I am still to blame for all her suffering; and you do not think that evil is less evil because good comes of it?"
"I certainly do not think that," said Claire. "But you had no evil intention, I am sure: you nevermeantto hurt Helen."
"No, I did not mean to do so, but I was careless whether she suffered or not. I thought only of myself—my own vanity, my own amusement. Nothing can change that, and so I have always felt that it was right I should suffer just as I made her suffer. Retribution came very quickly, Claire."
"Did it?" asked Claire. Her soft, gray eyes were full of unspoken sympathy. "Well, suffering is a great thing, dear; it enables us to expiate so much! Tell me about yours—if you like."
"I feel as if I had come here just to tell you," said Marion. And then followed the story of her engagement to Brian Earle, her anger because he would not comply with his uncle's wishes, their parting, her unexpected inheritance of Mr. Singleton's fortune, Rathborne's revenge in finding the lost heir, her surrender of the fortune to him, and her rejection of his suit.
"So here I am," she observed in conclusion, with a faint smile, "like one who has passed through terrible storms: who has been shipwrecked and has barely escaped with life—that is, with a fragment of self-respect. I am so glad I had strength to give up that fortune, Claire! You know how I always desired wealth."
"I know so well," said Claire, "that I am proud of you—proud that you had the courage to do what must have cost you so much. But I always told you that I knew you better than you knew yourself; and I was sure that you would never do anything unworthy, not even to gain the end you had so much at heart. But, Marion"—her face grew grave,—"I have something to tell you that I fear may prove unpleasant to you. Brian Earle is here."
"Brian Earle here!" repeated Marion. She became very pale, and for a moment was silent. Then she said, proudly, "I hope no one will imagine that I suspected this. I thought he was in Germany. But it will not be necessary for me to meet him."
"That must be for you to decide," said Claire, in a somewhat troubled tone. "He comes to see us occasionally—he is an old friend of Mrs. Kerr's—but, if you desire it, I will ask her to let him know that it will be best for him to discontinue his visits."
"No," said Marion, with quick, instinctive recoil; "for that would be to acknowledge that I shrink from seeing him. If Idoshrink, he shall not be made aware of it. Perhaps, when he knows that I am here, he will desire to keep away. If not, I am—I will be strong enough to meet him with indifference."
Claire looked at her steadily, wistfully; it seemed as if she were trying to know all that might be known. "If you do not feel indifference," she said, gently, after a moment, "is it well to simulate it?"
"How can you ask such a question?" demanded Marion, with a touch of her old haughtiness. "It is not only well—it is essential to my self-respect. But I do not acknowledge that it will be simulation. Why should I be other than indifferent to Brian Earle? As I confessed to you a few minutes ago, I suffered when we parted, but that is over now."
"You care for him no longer, then?"
"Is it possible I could care for a man who has treated me as he has done? For I still believe that it was his duty to have remained with his uncle, and if—if he had cared for me at all he would have done so."
"But perhaps," said Claire, "he perceived that passionate desire of yours for wealth, and thought that it would not be well for you to have it gratified. I can imagine that."
"You imagine, then, exactly what he was good enough to say," replied Marion, dryly. "But I suppose you know enough of me to be also able to imagine that I was not very grateful for such a form of regard. He talked like a moralist, but he certainly did not feel like a lover, and so I let him go. I am not sorry for that."
"Then," said Claire, after a short pause of reflection, "I cannot see any reason why you should avoid meeting him. There may be a little awkwardness at first; but, if you have really no feeling for him, that will pass away."
"I should prefer to avoid such a meeting, if possible," answered Marion; "but if not possible, I will endure. Only, if you can, give me warning when it is likely to occur."
"That, unfortunately, is what I can hardly do," said Claire, in a tone of regret. "Our friends have established a habit of dropping in, without formality, almost any evening; and so we never know who is coming, or when."
"In that case there is, of course, nothing to be done. I can only promise that, whenever the occasion occurs, I will try to be equal to it."
"I have no doubt of that," answered Claire.
But she looked concerned as she went away, and it was evident to Mrs. Kerr that she was more than usually thoughtful that evening. As she had said, their friends in Rome found it pleasant to drop informally into their prettysalon. Artists predominated among these friends; so it was not strange that she watched the door, thinking that Brian Earle might come, and conscious of a wish that he would; for Marion, pleading fatigue, declined to appear on this first evening after her arrival; and Claire said to herself that if Earledidcome, it would give her an opportunity to tell him what meeting lay before him, and he could then avoid it if he chose to do so. When, as the evening passed on, it became at length clear that he was not coming—and there was no reason beside her own desire for expecting him,—Claire thought, with a sigh, that events must take their course, since it was plainly out of her power to direct them.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Andevents did take their course, when, a few evenings later, Marion suddenly saw Earle entering thesalon, where three or four visitors were already assembled. She herself was at the farther end of the room, and somewhat concealed by a large Oriental screen, near which she was seated. She was very glad of this friendly shelter when she felt her heart leap in a manner which fairly terrified her, as, glancing up, she saw Earle's face in the doorway. Her own emotion surprised her far more than his appearance; she shrank farther back into the shadow to conceal what she feared might be perceptible to others, and yet she could not refrain from following him with her eyes.
What she saw was this—that, even while greeting Mrs. Kerr, his glance wandered to Claire; that his first eager step was taken in her direction; and that his face, when he took her hand, was so eloquent of pleasure and tender admiration that it made Marion recall some words he had spoken when they first knew each other in Scarborough. "She charmed me," he had said then of Claire; "she is so simple, so candid, so intent upon high aims." Every word came back with sudden distinctness, with sudden, piercing meaning and weight, in the light of the look on Earle's face.
"He is in love with Claire!" said Marion to herself. "Nothing could be more natural, nothing more suitable. There is no struggleherebetween his heart and his judgment, as was the case with me. She seems to be made for him in every respect. Why did I not think of it sooner, and why did not Claire tell me that he had transferred his affection to her? Did she want me to see for myself, or did she think that I should not see? But there is no reason why I should care—none whatever."
Even while she repeated this assurance to herself, however, the sinking of her heart, the trembling of her hands, belied it, and frightened her by the evidence of a feeling she had not suspected. Surely, among the mysteries of our being, there is none greater than the existence and growth of feelings which we not only do not encourage, but of which we are often in absolute ignorance until some flash of illumination comes to reveal to us their strength.
Such a flash came now to Marion. She had assured herself that she had put Brian Earle out of her heart, and instead she suddenly found that, during the interval in which she had condemned it to darkness and silence, her feeling for him had increased rather than lessened. And she was now face to face with the proof that he had forgotten her—that he had found in Claire the true ideal of his fancy! She felt that it was natural, she acknowledged that it was just, but the shock was overpowering.
Fortunately, she happened at that moment to be alone—a gentleman who had been talking to her having crossed the room to ask Mrs. Kerr a question. Seeing him about to retrace his steps, a sudden instinct of flight—of flight at any cost of personal dignity—seized Marion. She felt that in another instant Claire would point her out to Earle, that he would be forced to come and address her. Could she bear that?—was she able to meet him as indifferently as she desired to do? Her beating pulses told her no; and, without giving herself time to think, she rose, lifted aportièrenear her, and passed swiftly and silently from the room.
Claire, meanwhile, glanced up at Earle; and she, too, met that look of tender admiration which Marion perceived. It was not the first time she had met it, but it was the first time that a consciousness of its possible meaning flashed upon her. She did not color at the thought, but grew instead suddenly pale, and glanced toward the corner of the room where Marion at that instant had made her escape; but Claire did not perceive this, and, with the sense of her presence, said to Earle:—
"You have probably not heard that my friend Marion Lynde is here?"
He started. "Miss Lyndehere—in Rome!" he asked. "No, I had not heard it. Why has she come?"
"To see and to be with me," answered Claire, calmly. "You know, perhaps, that we are great friends."
"I have heard Miss Lynde speak of you," he said, regaining self-possession; "and if the friendship struck me as rather a strange one, knowing little of you as I did then, you may be sure that it strikes me now as more than strange. I have never met two people in my life who seemed to me to have less in common."
"Pardon me!" returned Claire. "You think so because you do not know either of us very well. We have really a great deal in common, and I doubt if any one in the world knows Marion as well as I do."
He looked at her with a sudden keen glance from under brows somewhat bent. "Are you not aware that I had at one time reason to fancy that I knew Miss Lynde quite well?" he asked.
"Yes," said Claire, with frankness; "I know. She has told me of that. But in such a relation as the one which existed between you for a time, people sometimes learn very little of each other. And I think that perhaps you did not learn very much of her."
"I learned quite enough," he replied,—"all that was necessary to convince me that I had made a great mistake. And there can be no doubt that Miss Lynde reached the same conclusion. That, I believe, is all that there is to say of the matter." He paused a moment, then added, "If she is here, I hope it will not be unpleasant to her to meet me; since I should be sorry to be banished from thissalon, which Mrs. Kerr and yourself make so attractive."
"There is no reason for banishment, unless you desire it," said Claire. "Marion does not object to meeting you. But I think that there are one or two things that you ought to know before you meet her. Are you aware, in the first place, that she has given up your uncle's fortune?"
"No," he answered, very much startled. "Why has she done so?"
"Because Mr. Singleton's son appeared, and she thought that he should in justice possess his father's fortune. Do you not think she was right?"
"Right?—I suppose so. But this is very astonishing news. You are positively certain that George Singleton, my uncle's son, is alive?"
"I am certain that Marion has told me so, and I do not suppose she is mistaken, since she has resigned a fortune to him. People are usually sure before they take such a step as that."
"Yes," he assented, "but it seems almost incredible. For years George Singleton has been thought to be dead, and I was under the impression that my uncle had positive reason for believing him so. This being the case, there was no reason why he should not leave his fortune as he liked, and I was glad when I heard that he had left it to Miss Lynde; for the possession of wealth seemed to be the first desire of her heart."
"Poor Marion!" said Claire, gently. "You might be more tolerant of that desire if you knew all that she has suffered—suffered in a way peculiarly hard to her—from poverty. And she has surely proved in the most conclusive manner that, however much she desired wealth, she was not prepared to keep it at any cost to her conscience or her self-respect."
"Did she, then, resignallthe fortune?"
"Very nearly all. She said that she reluctantly retained only a few thousand dollars."
"But is it possible that George Singleton did not insist upon providing for her fitly? Whatever his other faults, he was not mercenary—formerly."
"Mr. Singleton must have tried every possible argument to induce her to keep half the fortune, but she refused to do so. I think she felt keenly some reflections that had been thrown on her by Mr. Singleton's relatives, and wished to disprove them."
Earle was silent for a minute. He seemed trying to adjust his mind to these new views of Marion's character. "And you tell me that she is here—with you?"
"I was about to say that she is in the room," Claire answered; "but I do not see her just now. She was here a few minutes ago."
"Probably my appearance sent her away. Perhaps she would rather not meet me."
"She assured me that she did not object to meeting you; and, unless you give up our acquaintance, I do not see how such a meeting can be avoided; for she has come to stay in Rome some time."
"Well," said Earle, with an air of determination, "I certainly have no intention of giving up your acquaintance. Be sure of that. And it would go hard with me to cease visiting here in the pleasant, familiar fashion Mrs. Kerr and yourself have allowed me to fall into. So if Miss Lynde does not object to meeting me, there assuredly is not the least reason why I should object to meeting her."
Claire would have liked to ask, in her sincere, straightforward fashion, if all his feeling for Marion was at an end; and she might have done so but for the recollection of the look which had startled her. She did not acknowledge to herself in so many words what that look might mean; but it made her instinctively avoid any dangerous question, and she was not sorry when at this point theirtête-à-têtewas interrupted.
But Marion did not reappear; and when Claire at length went to seek her, she found that she had retired. Her room was in partial darkness, so that her face could not be seen, but her voice sounded altogether as usual when she accounted for her disappearance.
"I found that I was more tired than I had imagined by our day of sight-seeing," she said. "I grew so stupid that flight was the only resource. Pray make my excuses to Mr. Gardner. I vanished while he went across the room, and I suppose he was astonished to find an empty chair when he returned."
"Do you know that Mr. Earle entered just at the time you left?" asked Claire, who had her suspicions about this sudden flight.
"Did he?" said Marion, in a tone of indifference. "Fortunately, it is not necessary to make my excuses to him. There is no more reason why he should wish to see me than why I should wish to see him. Another time will answer as well to exchange some common-places of greeting. Good-night, dear! Don't let me detain you longer from your friends."
"I am so sorry you are tired! Hereafter we must be more moderate in sight-seeing," observed Claire.
As she went out of the room she said to herself that she must wait before she could decide anything with regard to the feelings of these two people. Was their alienation real and complete? One seemed as cold and indifferent as the other. But did this coldness only mask the old affection, or was it genuine? Claire had some instincts which seldom misled her, and one of these instincts made her fear that the indifference was more genuine with Earle than with Marion. "That would be terrible," she said to herself: "ifhehas forgotten andshehas not. If it were only possible that they would tell the simple truth! But that, I suppose, cannot be expected. If I knew it, I would know how to act; but as it is I can only wait and observe. I believe, however, that Marion left the room because he appeared; and if his presence has such an effect on her, she certainly cares for him yet."
Marion was already writhing under the thought that this very conclusion would be drawn—perhaps by Earle himself,—and determining that she would never again be betrayed into such weakness. "It was the shock of surprise," she said in self-extenuation. "I was not expecting anything ofthatkind, and it naturally startled me. I know it now, and it will have no such effect a second time. I suppose I might have looked for it if I had not been so self-absorbed. Certainly it is not only natural, but very suitable. They seem made for each other; and I—I do hope they may be happy. But I must go away as soon as I can. That is necessary."
It was several days after this that the meeting between herself and Earle took place. She had been with Claire for some hours in the galleries of the Vatican, and finally before leaving they entered the beautiful Raphael Loggia—that lovely spot filled with light and color, where the most exquisite creations of the king of painters glow with immortal sunshine from the walls. As they entered and paced slowly down its length, a figure was advancing from the other end of the luminous vista toward them. Marion recognized this figure before Claire did, and so had a moment in which to take firm hold of her self-possession before the latter, turning to her quickly, said, "Yonder comes Mr. Earle."
"So I perceive," replied Marion, quietly. "He has not changed sufficiently to make an introduction necessary."
The next moment they had met, were shaking hands, and exchanging greetings. Of the two Marion preserved her composure best. Earle was surprised by his own emotion when he saw again the face that once had power to move him so deeply. He had said to himself that its power was over, that he was cured in the fullest sense of that which he looked back upon as brief infatuation; but now that he found himself again in Marion's presence, a thrill of the old emotion seemed to stir, and for a moment rendered him hardly able to speak.
Conventionalities are powerful things, however, and the emotion must be very strong that is not successfully held in check by them. Claire went on speaking in her gentle voice, giving the others time to recover any self-possession which they might have lost.
"We just came for a turn in this beautiful place before going home," she said to Earle. "They are my delight, theseloggiaof the Vatican. All the sunshine and charm of Italy seem to meet in the divine loveliness of the frescos within, and the beauty of the classic gardens without. A Papal audience is never so picturesque, I am sure, as when it is held in one of these noble galleries."
Earle assented rather absently; then saying, "If you are about to go home, I will see you to your carriage," turned and joined them. It was a singular sensation to find himself walking again by Marion's side; and the recollection of their last parting returned so vividly to his mind that when he spoke he could only say, "My poor uncle's life was much, shorter than I imagined it would be, Miss Lynde."
"Yes," replied Marion, quietly. "His death was a great surprise to everyone. I am sure you did not think when you parted from him that his life would be numbered only by weeks."
"I certainly did not think so," he answered, with emphasis. Then he paused and hesitated. Conversation seemed hedged with more difficulties than he had anticipated. His parting with his uncle had been so closely connected with his parting from Marion, that he found it a subject impossible to pursue. He dropped it abruptly, therefore, and remarked: "I was greatly surprised to learn from Miss Alford that my cousin George Singleton is alive, and has returned from the wild regions in which he buried himself."
This was a better opening. Marion replied that Mr. Singleton's appearance had astonished everyone concerned, but that his identity was fully established. "Indeed," she added, "I do not think there was a doubt in the mind of any one after he made his personal appearance."
"And you gave up your fortune to him?" said Earle, with a sudden keen glance at her.
She colored. "I did not feel that it wasmyfortune," she answered, "but rather his. Surely his father must have believed him dead, else he would never have made such a disposition of his property."
"That was my impression—that he believed him dead. But it is difficult to speak with certainty about a man so peculiar and so reticent as my uncle. You will, perhaps, pardon me for saying that, since he had left you his fortune, I do not think you were bound to resign it all."
"I suppose," said Marion, somewhat coldly, "that I was not bound to resign any of it: I had, no doubt, a legal right to keep whatever the law did not take from me. But I am not so mercenary as you believe. I could not keep what I did not believe to be rightfully mine."
Despite pride, her voice trembled a little over the last words; and Earle was immediately filled with self-reproach to think that he had wounded her.
"So far from believing you mercenary," he said gravely, "I think that you have acted with extraordinary generosity,—a generosity carried, indeed, beyond prudence. Forgive me for alluding to the subject. I only regret that my uncle's intentions toward you have been so entirely frustrated."
"I have the recollection of his great kindness," she said, hurriedly. "I know that he desired to help me, therefore I felt it right to keep something. I did not leave myself penniless."
"You would have been wrong if you had done so," remarked Earle; "but it would have been better still if you had kept a fair amount of the fortune."
"Oh, no!" she replied; "for I had no claim to any of it—no claim, I mean, of relationship. I was a stranger to your uncle, and I only kept such an amount as it seemed to me a kind-hearted man might give to a stranger who had wakened his interest. Mr. George Singleton was very kind, too. He wished me to keep more, but I would not."
"I understand how you felt," said Earle; "and I fear I should have acted in the same manner myself, so I really cannot blame you. I only think it a pity."
The gentleness and respect of his tone touched and pleased her. She felt that it implied more approval and sympathy than he liked to express. Unconsciously her eyes thanked him; and when they parted a little later in one of the courts of the Vatican, each felt that the awkwardness of meeting was over, and that there was no reason why they should shrink from meeting again.
"I have wronged her," said Earle to himself as he strolled away. "She is not the absolutely mercenary and heartless creature I had come to believe her. I might have known that I was wrong, or Miss Alford would not make a friend of her. Whoevershelikes must be worthy of being liked."
CHAPTER XXXII.
Itwas soon apparent to Marion that Claire's talent was as fully recognized by the artists who made her circle now, as it had been by the nuns in the quiet convent she had left. They praised her work, they asked her judgment upon their own, and they prophesied a great future for her—a future of the highest distinction and the most solid rewards.
"I knew how it would be, Claire," Marion said one day, as she sat in the studio of the young artist watching her at work. "I always knew thatyouwould succeed, whoever else failed. Do you remember our last conversation together—you and Helen and I—the evening before we left school, when we told one another what we desired most in life?Isaid money; well, I have had it, and was forced to choose between giving it up or giving up my self-respect. I have found out already that there are worse things than to be poor. Helen said happiness—poor, dear Helen! and the happiness of which she was thinking slipped out of her fingers like a vapor. But you, Claire,—youchose something worthy: you chose success in art, and God has given it to you."
"Yes," observed Claire, meditatively, "I have had some success; I feel within myself the power to do good work, and my power is recognized by those whose praise is of value. I feel that my future is assured—that I can make money enough for all my needs, and also the fame which it is natural for every artist to desire. But, Marion, do you know that with this realization has come a great sense of its unsatisfactoriness? There are days in which I lay down my brushes and say to myself 'Cui bono?' as wearily as the most world-weary man."
"Claire, it is impossible!"
Claire smiled a little sadly as she went on mixing her colors. "It is very possible and very true," she said. "And I suppose the moral of it is that there is no real satisfaction in the possession of any earthly ideal. We desire it, we work for it, and when we get it we find that it has no power to make us happy. We three, each of us in different ways, found that out, Marion."
"But there was no similarity in the ways," replied Marion. "Mine was an unworthy ideal, and Helen's a foolish one; but yours was all that it ought to be, and it seems to me that you should be perfectly happy in the attainment of it."
"And so I am happy," said Claire. "Do not mistake me. I am happy, and very grateful to God; but I cannot pretend to a satisfaction in the attainment of my wishes which I do not find. There is something lacking. Though I love art, it does not fill the needs of my nature. I want something more—something which I do not possess—as an object, an incentive—"
She broke off abruptly, and Marion was silent for a moment from sheer astonishment. That Claire should feel in this way—Claire so calm, so self-contained, so devoted to her art, so ambitious of success in it—amazed her beyond the power of expression, until suddenly a light dawned upon her and she seemed to see what it meant. It meant—itmustmean—that Claire in her loneliness felt the need of love, and the ties that love creates. Friends were all very well, but friends could not satisfy the heart in the fullest sense; neither could the pleasure of painting pictures, nor the praise of critics, however warm. Yes, Claire desired love—that was plain; and love was at hand for her to take—love that Marion had thrown away.
"It is just and right," said the latter to herself. "I have nothing to complain of—nothing! And she must not think that I will regret it. I must find a way to make her understand this." After a minute she spoke aloud: "Certainly you have surprised me, Claire; for I did think thatyouwere happy. But I suppose the moral is, as you say, that the attainment of no object which we set before ourselves is able to render us thoroughly satisfied. But your pictures are so beautiful that it must be a pleasure to paint them."
"Genius is too great a word to apply to me," remarked Claire, quietly. "But itisa pleasure to paint; I should be ungrateful beyond measure if I denied that. I have much happiness in it, and I am more than content with the success God has granted me. I only meant to say that it has not the power to satisfy me completely. But that, I suppose, nothing of a purely earthly nature can have."
"Do you think not?" asked Marion, rather wistfully. This is "a hard saying" for youth to believe, even after experience has somewhat taught its truth. Indeed the belief that there may be lasting good in some earthly ideal, eagerly sought, eagerly desired, does not end with youth. Men and women pursue such delusions to the very end of life, and lie down at last in the arms of death without having ever known any lasting happiness, or lifted their eyes to the one Ideal which can alone satisfy the yearning of their poor human hearts.
This glimpse of Claire's inmost feeling was not forgotten by Marion. It seemed to her that it made matters plain, and she had now no doubt how the affair would end as regarded Earle. She said again to herself, "I must go away;" but she knew that to go immediately would be to betray herself, and this she passionately desired not to do. Therefore she did what was the next best thing—she avoided Earle as much as possible, so markedly indeed that it would have been impossible for him to force himself upon her even if he had desired to do so. She persevered in this line of conduct so resolutely that Claire began to think that some conclusions she had drawn at first were a mistake, and that the alienation between these two was indeed final.
But Marion's success cost her dearly. It was a severe discipline through which she was passing—a discipline which tried every power of her nature, in which there was a constant struggle to subdue everything that was most dominant within her. Passion that had grown stronger with time, selfishness that demanded what it desired, vanity that smarted under forgetfulness, and pride that longed to assert itself in power,—all of these struggled against the resolution which kept them down. But the resolution did not fail. "After having thrown away my own happiness by my own fault, I will die before I sacrifice Claire's," she determined. But it was a hard battle to fight alone; and, had she relied solely upon her own strength, might never have been fought at all, or at least would have ended very soon. But Rome is still Rome, in that it offers on every side such spiritual aids and comforts as no other spot of earth affords.
If Marion had begun to find mysterious peace in the bare little chapel of Scarborough, was she less likely to find it here in these ancient sanctuaries of faith, these great basilicas that in their grandeur dwarf all other temples of earth,—that in their beauty are like glimpses of the heavenly courts, and in their solemn holiness lay on the spirit a spell that language can but faintly express? It was not long before this spell came upon her like a fascination. When the heavy curtains swung behind her, and she passed from the sunlight of the streets into the cool dimness of some vast church; when through lines of glistening marble columns—columns quarried for pagan temples by the captives of ancient Rome—she passed to chapels rich with every charm of art and gift of wealth,—to sculptured altars where for long ages the Divine Victim had been offered, and the unceasing incense of prayer ascended,—she felt as if she asked only to remain and steep her weary heart and soul in the ineffable repose which she found there.
She expressed something of this one day to Claire, when they passed out of Santa Maria Maggiore into the light of common day; and Claire looked at her, with a smile in her deep grey eyes.
"Yes," she said, in her usual quiet tone, "I know that feeling very well. But it is not possible to have only the comfort of religion: we must taste also the struggle and the sacrifice it demands. We must leave the peace of the sanctuary to fight our appointed battle in the world, or else we must make one great sacrifice and leave the world to find our home and work in the sanctuary. I do not think that will ever be your vocation, Marion, so you must be content with carrying some of the peace of the sanctuary back with you into the world. Only, my dear"—her voice sank a little,—"I think if you would take one decisive step, you would find that peace more real and enduring."
"I know what you mean," answered Marion, thoughtfully. "I cannot tell why I have delayed so long. I certainly believe whatever the Catholic Church teaches, because I am sure that if she has not the truth in her possession, it is not on earth. I am willing to do whatever she commands, but I am not devotional, Claire. I cannot pretend to be."
"There is no need to pretend," returned Claire, gently; "nor yet to torment yourself about your deficiency in that respect. Yours is not a devotional nature, Marion; but all the more will your service be of value, because you will offer it not to please yourself, but to obey and honor God. Do not fear on that account, but come let me take you to my good friend, Monsignor R——."
"Take me where you will," said Marion. "If I can only retain and make my own the peace that I sometimes feel in your churches, I will do anything that can be required of me."
"I do not think you will find that anything hard will be required of you," observed Claire, with a smile that was almost angelic in its sweetness and delight.
And truly Marion found, as myriads have found before her, that no path was ever made easier, more like the guiding of a mother's hand, than that which led her into the Church of God. So gentle were the sacramental steps, and each so full of strange, mysterious sweetness, that this period ever after seemed like a sanctuary in her life—a spot set apart and sacred, as hallowed with the presence of the Lord. She had willingly followed the suggestion of the good priest, and gone into a convent for a few days before her reception into the Church. This reception took place in the lovely convent chapel, where, surrounded by the nuns, with only Claire and Mrs. Kerr present from the outer world, it seemed to Marion as if time had indeed rolled back, and she was again at the beginning of life. But what a different beginning! Looking at the selfish and worldly spirit with which she had faced the world before, she could only thank God with wondering gratitude for the lesson He had taught so soon, and the rescue He had inspired.
When she found herself again in Claire'ssalon, with a strange sense of having been far away for a great length of time, one of the first people to congratulate her on the step she had taken was Brian Earle. He was astonished when Claire told him where Marion had gone, and he was more astonished now at the look on her face as she turned it to him. Although he could not define it, there was a withdrawal, an aloofness in that face which he had never seen there before. Nor was this an imagination on his part. Marion felt, with a sense of infinite relief, that shehadbeen withdrawn from the influence he unconsciously exerted upon her; that it was no longer painful to her to see him; that the higher feeling in which she had been absorbed had taken the sting out of the purely natural sentiment that had been a trouble to her. She felt a resignation to things as they were, for which she had vainly struggled before; and, even while she was withdrawn from Earle, felt a quietness so great that it amounted to pleasure in speaking to him.
"Yes," she said, in answer to his congratulation, "I have certainly proved that all roads lead to Rome. No road could have seemed less likely to lead to Rome than the one I set out on; but here I am—safe in the spiritual city. It is a wonder to me even yet."
"It is not so great a wonder to me," he replied. "I thought even in Scarborough that you were very near it."
She colored. The allusion to Scarborough made her realize how and why she had been near it then, but she recovered herself quickly. "In a certain sense I was always near it," she said, quietly. "I never for a moment believed that any religion was true except the Catholic. But no one knows better than I do now what a wide difference there is between believing intellectually and acting practically. The grace of God is absolutely necessary for the latter, and why He should have given that grace tomeI do not know."
"It is difficult to tell why He should have given it to any of us," observed Earle, touched and surprised more and more. Was this indeed the girl who had once seemed to him so worldly and so mercenary? He could hardly credit the transformation that had taken place in her.
"I have never seen any one so changed as Miss Lynde," he said later to Claire. "One can believe any change possible after seeing her."
Claire smiled. "You will perhaps believe now that you only knew her superficially before," she replied. "There is certainly a change—a great change—in her. But the possibility of the change was always there."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Soonafter this Claire said to herself that if these two people were ever to be brought together again it could only be by her exertions. Left to themselves, it became more and more evident that such an event would never occur. And Claire had fully arrived at the conclusion that it would be the best thing which could occur; for she had no doubt of the genuineness of Marion's regard for Earle; and, while she recognized the attraction which she herself possessed for the latter, she believed that, underlying this, his love for Marion existed still.
"But, whether it does or not, his fancy formecan come to nothing," she thought; "and the sooner he knows it, the better. I should be glad if he could know it at once. If such a thing must be stopped, there should be no delay in the matter."
It was certainly no fault of Claire's that there was any delay. Earle's manner to herself rendered her so nervous, especially when Marion was present to witness it, that she could hardly control her inclination to take matters in her own hand, and utter some words which it would be contrary to all precedent for a woman to utter until she has been asked for them. But her eagerness to make herself understood at last gave her the opportunity she so much desired.
One evening Earle inquired about a picture on which she was engaged, and of which he had seen the beginning in an open-air Campagna sketch. She replied that she was not succeeding with it as she had hoped to do; and when he asked if he might not be permitted to see it, she readily assented.
"For, you know, one is not always the best judge of one's own work," he remarked. "You may be discouraged without reason. I will give you a candid opinion as to the measure of your success."
"If you will promise an altogether candid opinion, you may come," she answered; "for you were present when I made the sketch, and so you can tell better than any one else if I have succeeded in any measure at all."
"To-morrow, then," he said,—"may I come to-morrow, and at what hour?"
Claire hesitated for a moment, and then named an hour late in the afternoon. "I shall not be at leisure before then," she said.
She did not add what was in her thoughts—that at this hour she might see him alone, since Mrs. Kerr and Marion generally went out at that time to drive. It was, she knew, contrary to foreign custom for her to receive him in such a manner; but, strong in the integrity of her own purpose, she felt that foreign customs concerned her very little.
The next day, therefore, when Earle arrived, he was informed that the ladies were out, except Miss Alford, who was in her studio, and would receive him there. A little surprised but very much pleased by this, he followed the servant to the room which Claire used as a studio when she was not studying in the galleries or in the studio of the artist who was her master.
It was a small apartment, altogether devoted to work, and without any of the decorations which make many studios show-rooms for bric-a-brac rather than places for labor. Here the easel was the chief article of furniture, and there was little else beside tables for paints and a few chairs. All was scrupulously clean, fresh and airy, however; and, with Claire's graceful figure in the midst, it seemed to Earle, as he entered, a very shrine of art—art in the noble simplicity which suits it best.
Claire, with her palette on her hand, was standing before the easel. She greeted him with a smile, and bade him come where he could command a good view of the painting. "Now be quite candid," she said; "for you know I do not care for compliments."
"And I hope you know that I never pay them—to you," he answered, as he obeyed her and stepped in front of the canvas.
It was a charming picture, a typical Campagna scene—a ruined mediæval fortress, in the lower story of which peasants had made their home, and round the door of which children were playing; a group of cattle drinking at a flag-grown pool; and, stretching far and wide, the solemn beauty of the great plain. The details were treated with great artistic skill, and the sentiment of the picture expressed admirably the wild, poetic desolation of this earth, "fatiguée de gloire, qui semble dédaigner de produire."
"You have succeeded wonderfully," said Earle, after a pause of some length. "How can you doubt it? Honestly, I did not expect to see anything half so beautiful. How admirably you have expressed the spirit of the Campagna!"
"Do you really think so?" asked Claire, coloring with pleasure. "Or, rather, I know that you would not say so if you did not think so, and therefore I am delighted to hear it. I wanted so much to express that spirit. It is what chiefly impresses me whenever I see the Campagna, and it is so impossible to put it in words."
"You have put it here," said Earle, with a gesture toward the canvas. "Never again doubt your ability to express anything that you like. You will be a great painter some day, Miss Alford; are you aware of that?"
She shook her head, and the flush of pleasure faded from her face as she turned her grave, gentle eyes to him. "No," she answered, quietly, "I do not think I shall ever be a great painter; and I will tell you why: it is because I do not think that art is my vocation—at least, not myfirstvocation."
"Not your first vocation to be an artist?" he said, in a tone of the greatest astonishment. "How can you think such a thing with the proof of your power before your eyes? Why, to doubt that you are an artist in every fibre of your being is equivalent to doubting that you exist."
"Not quite," she answered, smiling. "But indeed I do not doubt that I am an artist, and I used to believe that if I really could become one, and be successful in the exercise of art, I should be perfectly happy. Now I have already succeeded beyond my hopes. I cannot doubt but that those who tell me, as you have just done, that I may be a painter in the truest sense if I continue to work, are right. And yet I repeat with the utmost seriousness that I do not think it is my vocation to remain in the world and devote myself to art."
Earle looked startled as a sudden glimpse of her meaning came to his mind. "What, then," he said, "do you believe to be your vocation?"
Claire looked away from him. She did not wish to see how hard the blow she must deliver would strike.
"I believe," she said, quietly, "that it is my vocation to enter the religious life. God has given me what I desired most in the world, but it does not satisfy me. My heart was left behind in the cloister, and day by day the desire grows upon me more strongly to return there."
"But you will not!" said Earle, almost violently. "It is impossible—it would be a sacrifice such as God never demands! Why should He have given you such great talent if He wished you to bury it in a cloister?"
"Perhaps that I might have something to offer to Him," answered Claire. "Otherwise I should have nothing, you know. But there can be no question of sacrifice when one is following the strongest inclination of one's heart."
"You do not know your own heart yet," said Earle. "You are following its first inclination without testing it. How could the peace and charm of the cloister fail to attract you—you who seem made for it? But—"