Claire's lifted hand stayed his words. "See," she said, "how you bear testimony to what I have declared. If I 'seem made' for the cloister, what can that mean save that my place is there?"
"Then is there no place for pure and good and lovely people in the world?" asked Earle, conscious that his tongue had indeed betrayed him.
"Oh, yes!" she answered; "there are not only places, but there are also many duties for such people; and numbers of them are to be met on all sides. But there are also some souls whom God calls to serve Him in the silence and retirement of the cloister, who pine like homesick exiles in the world. Believe me I am one of those souls. I shrank from leaving the convent where I had been educated, to go out into the world; but I knew what everyone would say: that I was following a fancy—an untried fancy—if I stayed. So I went; and, as if to test me, everything that I desired has been given me, and given without the delays and disappointments that others have had to endure. The world has shown me only its fairest side, yet the call to something better and higher has daily grown stronger within me, until I have no longer any doubt but that it is God's will that I shall go."
Earle threw himself into a chair, and sat for a minute silent, like one stunned. He felt as if he had heard a death-warrant read—as if he was not only to be robbed individually, but the world was to be robbed of this lovely creature with her brilliant gift.
"What am I to say to you?" he cried at length, in a half-stifled voice. "This seems to me too horrible for belief. It is like suicide—the suicide of the faculties, the genius that God has given you,—of all the capabilities of your nature to enjoy,—of all the beauty, the happiness of life—"
He paused, for Claire was regarding him with a look of amazement and reproach. "You call yourself a Catholic," she said, "and yet you can speak in this way of a religious vocation!"
"I do not speak of religious vocations in general," he answered. "I only speak of yours. There are plenty of people who have nothing special to do in the world. Letthemgo to the cloister. But for you—you with your wonderful talent, your bright future—it is too terrible an idea to be entertained."
"Do you know," she said gravely, "that you not only shock, you disappoint me greatly? How can you be a Catholic and entertain such sentiments?—how can you think that only the useless, the worn-out, the disappointed people of this world are for God? I have been told that Protestants think such things as that, but they are surely strange for a Catholic to believe."
"I do not believe them," he said; "I am sure you know that. But when one is awfully shocked, one does not measure one's words. You do not realize how close this comes to me—how terrible the disappointment—"
She cut him short ruthlessly. "I realize," she said, with a sweet smile, "that you are very kind to have such a good opinion of me—to believe that the world will really sustain any loss when such an insignificant person as I leave it for the cloister."
"Insignificant!" he repeated, with something like a groan. "How little you know of yourself to think that! But tell me, is your mind unalterably made up to this step?—couldnothinginduce you to change it?"
Her eyes met his, steady and calm as stars. "Nothing," she answered, firmly but gently. "When God says, 'Come,' one must arise and go. There is no alternative. As a preparation, He fills one with such a distaste for the world, such a sense of the brevity and unsatisfactoriness of all earthly things, that they no longer have any power to attract."
"Not even human love?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
She shook her head. "Not when weighed against divine love," she answered.
In that answer everything was said, and a silence fell, in which Claire seemed to hear the beating of her heart. Would he be satisfied with this and go away without forcing her to be more explicit, or would he persist in laying on her one of the most painful necessities which can be laid upon a woman? As she waited with anxiety for the solution of this question, Earle was having something of a struggle with himself. The impulse was strong with him to declare unreservedly what he felt and what he had ventured to hope; but an instinct told him not only that it would be useless, but that he would inflict needless pain upon Claire, and mar their friendship by a memory of words that could serve no possible purpose. He knew that she understood him; he recognized the motive which had made her speak to him of a purpose that he felt sure had been spoken of to no other among her associates and friends; and he was strong enough to say to himself that he would keep silence—that she should know no more than she had already guessed of the pain which it cost him to hear her resolution.
When he presently looked at her, it was with a face pale with feeling, but calm with the power of self-control. "Such a choice," he said, "it is not for me or for any other man to combat. I only venture to beg you not to act hastily. It would be terrible to take such a step and regret it."
Claire smiled almost as a cloistered nun might smile at such words. "Do you think that one ever takes such a step hastily? No: there is a long probation before me; and if I have spoken to you somewhat prematurely, it was only because I thought I should like you to know—"
"I understand," he said, as she hesitated. "It is well that I should know. Do not think that I am so dull as to mistake you in the least. I am honored by your confidence, and I shall remember it and you as long as I live. Now"—he rose—"I must bid you good-bye. I think of leaving Rome for a time. I have a friend in Naples who is urging me to join him in a journey to the East. Can I do anything for you in the Holy Land?"
"You can pray for me," said Claire; "and believe that wherever I may be I shall always pray for you."
"What better covenant could be made?" he asked, with a faint smile. And then, in order to preserve his composure, he took her hand, kissed it, and went hastily away.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Andso for Earle those Roman days ended, with the brief dream which he had indulged of finding in Claire's heart a response for the feeling that had arisen in his own. Yet no disappointment can be very keen when hope has not been very great, and Earle was well aware that he had never possessed any ground for hope. Kind and gentle as Claire had been, he was always conscious of something about her which seemed to set her at a remote distance,—an indefinable manner which had made him once call her "a vestal of art." He understood this now, but he had felt it before he understood it, and so the blow was not as heavy as it might have been if this underlying instinct had not existed. A vestal!—the expression had been well chosen; for there was indeed a vestal-like quality about her,—a vestal-like charm, which seemed to inspire thoughts of cloisteral tranquillity, and keep the fires of human passion at bay. This exquisite quality had been her chief attraction to Earle: its very unlikeness to the nature which had fascinated him, and from which he had recoiled, making its charm the greater; but even while it attracted, he had felt that it removed her from him and made hope wear the guise of presumption.
Now all hope was finally at an end; and, since it is in human nature to resign itself to the inevitable, the wound might be said to carry its own cure. Earle was aware of this, and he left Rome in no melodramatic spirit whatever; but feeling it best to go, in order to recover that calm and healthy control of himself and his own feelings which had been lacking with him since he first met Marion in Scarborough. As we know that nature abhors a vacuum, it is probable that his attachment to Claire arose partly from the disappointment of that prior attachment—from the need of the heart to put another object in the place of that which had been dethroned; but, leaving all analysis of the kind for the future, he quietly accepted the pain of the present and went away.
Marion had not the least doubt of the reason of his going, although no word fell from Claire on the subject. She said to herself that she was sorry—that she had hoped to know that Claire and himself were happy together, since they suited each other so well; but, although she was sincere in thinking this, there could be no doubt that, despite herself, she felt his departure to be a relief—that it relaxed a strain in which she held herself,—and that if a blank followed, a sense of peace, of release from painful conflict, also came. "I suffer through my own fault," she reflected; "therefore it is quite right that I should suffer." And such acceptance robbed the suffering of half its sting.
Two or three tranquil months followed—months during which the influences that surrounded her sank deep into Marion, and seemed to be moulding over again the passionate, impulsive nature. Claire was one of the foremost of these influences, as Marion herself was well aware; and more than once she thought that she would be content if she might spend her life near the friend who had always seemed to her the voice of her better self. She had begun to study art—having a very fair talent,—and one day as she sat working at a study she said to Claire, who was painting busily on the other side of the room:—
"If I can ever grow to be anything of an artist, what a pleasure it will be for us to live and work together! I cannot think of anything I should prefer to that."
Claire smiled a little. "Nevertheless," she said, "there may be something that you will prefer as time goes on, although our association is very pleasant—as pleasant to me as to you."
"Is there anything thatyouwould prefer?" asked Marion; for something in the tone of the other struck her with surprise.
Claire did not answer for a moment. Then she said, quietly: "Yes. I must be frank with you. There is something I should prefer even to your companionship, even to art. I should prefer to go back to the convent that I have never ceased to regret."
Marion's brush dropped from her hand. She was astonished beyond measure, for it was the first intimation she had received of such a feeling on Claire's part. "Go back to the convent," she cried, "and give up you art!—Claire, are you mad?"
"Very sane, my dear," answered Claire, smiling. "I have disliked to tell you about it, because I knew you would be sorry. I am sorry, too, that it should be necessary for us to part; but I grow daily more certain that my vocation lies not in the world but in the cloister."
"I am more than sorry—I am shocked!" said Marion. "With your talent!—why, all the artists whom we know say that your future is certain to be a brilliant one. And to bury that in a cloister!—Claire, it should not be allowed!"
Claire remembered what other voice had said this, almost in the same words; but she was no more moved by it now than she had been then.
"Who should prevent it?" she asked. "If you, for instance, had the power, would you venture to prevent it—to say that any soul should serve the world instead of serving God?"
"That is not a fair way to put it. Cannot people serve God in the world as well as in the cloister?"
"Surely yes, if it is their vocation to do so. But if one has a vocation for the religious life—if that imperative call is heard, which cannot be realized except by those who hear it, bidding one arise and go forth,—then onecannotserve God as well in the world as in the cloister."
"But, Claire, may you not imagine this call? I cannot believe that God would have given you such a talent if He had not meant you to make the most of it. Think how much good you might do if you remained in the world—how much money you might make, as well as how much fame you might win!"
"My dear," said Claire, with gentle solemnity, "how much will either money or fame weigh in the scales of eternity? I want to work for eternity rather than for time; and I am, happily, free to do so—to go back to the cloister, where I left my heart. Do not make it painful for me. Try to reconcile yourself to it, and to believe that God makes no mistakes."
"I cannot be reconciled," said Marion. "It is not only that I cannot bear to give you up—that I cannot bear for you to resign the success of which I have been proud in anticipation,—but I am selfish, too. I think of my own life. You are my one anchor in the world, and I have been happy in the thought of our living together, of our—"
Her voice broke down in tears. It was indeed a blow which fell more heavily than Claire had reckoned on. Feeling assured herself what would be the end for Marion, she overlooked the fact that Marion herself had no such assurance. In her disappointment and her friendlessness she had come to Claire as to a secure refuge, and lo! that refuge was now about to fail her. Emotion overpowered her—the strong emotion of a nature which rarely yields to it,—and for some minutes she was hardly conscious that Claire's tender arms were around her, and Claire's tender voice was bidding her take comfort and courage.
"I am not going to leave you immediately, nor even soon," that voice said; "and I should certainly not leave you, under any circumstances, until I saw you well placed and happy. Dear Marion, do not distress yourself. Let us leave things in God's hands. He will show us what is best."
"I am a wretch to distressyou," said Marion, struggling with her tears. "But you must not believe me more selfish than I am. Do you think I should only miss you as a convenience of my life? No, it isyou, Claire—your influence, yourself—that I shall miss beyond all measure. No one in the world can take your place with me—no one!"
"But there may be a place as good for some one else to take," said Claire. "Do not fear: the path will open before you. If we trust God He will certainly show us what to do. Trust Him, Marion, and try to be reconciled, will you not?"
"I will try," Marion answered; "but I fear that I never can be. You see now, Claire, how strong a hold the world has on me. If I were good, if I were spiritual-minded, I should be glad for you to do this thing; but as it is, my whole feeling is one of vehement opposition."
"That will not last," said Claire. "I have seen it often, even in people whom you would have called very spiritual-minded; but it ended in the belief that whatever God wills is best. You will feel that, too, before long."
Marion shook her head sadly, but she would not pain Claire by further words. She felt that her resolution was immovable, however long it might be before it was executed. "So there is nothing for me but to try to resign myself," she thought. "I wish it weremyvocation that I might go with her; for everything that I care for seems to slip from my grasp."
Apart from resigning herself in feeling, there was also a practical side of the question which she was well aware must be considered. Where was she to go, with whom was she to live when Claire had left her, and, like a weary dove, flown back to cloister shades? She considered this question anxiously; and she had not arrived at any definite conclusion, when one day a letter came which made her utter a cry of surprise and pleasure.
"This is from Helen," she said, meeting Claire's glance; "and what I hoped and expected has come to pass—she has promised to marry Mr. Singleton."
"Helen!" exclaimed Claire, in a tone of incredulity. "Why, I thought he wanted to marry you."
Marion laughed. "That was a mistake on his part," she said, "which fortunately did not impose upon me. Perhaps he was a little in love—the circumstances favored such a delusion,—but I am sure his ruling motive for asking me to marry him was to give me that share of the fortune which he could not induce me to take in any other way. I really did not suit him at all. I saw before I left that Helendidsuit him, and I hoped for just what has come to pass. O Claire, you don't know how happy it makes me! For I feel now as if I had in a measure atoned to Helen for the pain I caused her about that wretched Rathborne."
"How?" asked Claire, smiling. "By making over Mr. Singleton and his fortune to her? But I am afraid you can scarcely credit yourself with having done that."
"Only indirectly, but it is certain that if I had accepted him he could not be engaged to her now. I am so glad—so very glad! He is really a good fellow, and Helen will be able to do a great deal with him."
"Is he a Catholic?"
"She says that he has just been received into the Church. But here is the letter. Read it for yourself. I think she is very happy."
Claire read the letter with interest, and when she had finished, returned it, saying, "Yes, I think she is certainly very happy. Dear Helen! how we always said that she was made for happiness! And now God seems to have given it to her in the form of great worldly prosperity—the very prosperity thatyoulost. Are not His ways strange to us?"
"This is not at all strange to me," replied Marion. "What I lost would have ruined me; what Helen has gained will have no effect upon her, except to make her more kind and more charitable. She is one of the people whom prosperity cannot harm. Therefore it is given her in full measure. But it certainly would have been singular if I could have foreseen that after I had gained my fortune it would pass into Helen's hands, and that by a simple process of retribution. For if matters had remained as they were between Rathborne and herself, there could have been no question of this. And they would have so remained but for me."
"You should be very grateful," said Claire, "that you have been allowed to atone so fully for a fault that you might have had to regret always.Nowit can be forgotten. Helen says she will be married in April, does she not?"
Marion turned to the letter. "Yes, in April—just after Easter. Claire, let us beg her to come abroad for her wedding journey, and join us?"
"With all my heart," said Claire. "They can come here for a little time, and then we can go with them to Switzerland, or the Italian lakes, or wherever they wish to go for the summer. It will be pleasant for us to be together once more—for the last time."
"Claire, you break my heart when you talk so!"
"Oh! no," said Claire, gently, "I am very sure that I do not break your heart; and if I sadden you a little, that is necessary; but it will not last long. There is no need to think of it now, however; only think that you and Helen and I will pass a few happy days together—for I suppose Mr. Singleton will not be much of a drawback—before we start on another and a different beginning of life from that on which we entered when we left our dear convent."
EPILOGUE.
A yearfrom the summer day when three girls had stood together on the eve of parting in their convent school-room, the same three were seated together on the shores of the Lago di Como. The garden of the hotel in which they were staying extended to the verge of the lake, and they had found a lovely leafy nook, surrounded by oleander and myrtle, with an unobstructed view over the blue sparkling water and the beautiful shores, framed by mountains.
"A year ago to-day!" said Marion, meditatively, after a pause of some length. "Do you remember how we wondered when and where we should be together again? And here we are, with an experience behind us which is full of dramatic changes and full of instructions—at least for me."
"Certainly for me also," observed Helen. "Looking back on what I passed through, I realize clearly how foolish we are to regret the loss of things that seem to us desirable, but which God knows to be just the reverse. How miserable I was for a time! Yet that very misery was paving the way for my present happiness."
"Very directly," said Marion, "yet it is something I do not like to think of; for it might all have ended so differently but for the mercy of God—and yours too, Helen. You deserve happiness, because you were so gentle and generous under unhappiness. As for me, I deserve nothing good, yet I have gained a great deal—the gift of faith, relief from self-reproach, and the great pleasure of being here with you and Claire."
Claire looked at the speaker with a smile. "The pleasure of being together is one that we all share," she said; "and also, I think, the sense of great gratitude to God. How much have I, for instance, to be grateful for—I who a year ago went forth into the world with so much reluctance—that the way has been made so clear to my feet; that I have now such a sense of peace, such a conviction of being in the right path!"
The others did not answer. It was hard for them—particularly hard for Marion—to give full sympathy on this point; for the pain of impending separation was hanging over them, and not even their recognition of the peace of which Claire spoke could make them altogether willing to see her pass out of their lives forever. There is the irrrevocableness and therefore the pain of death in such partings, intensified by the fact that just in proportion as a character is fitted for the religious life does it possess the virtues to endear it most to those associated with it in the world. In such cases renunciation is not altogether on one side; and although Marion had struggled for the strength to make this renunciation, she could not yet control herself sufficiently to speak of it. Her own future looked very blank to her, although it had been decided that she should remain with Helen, at least for a time, when Claire left them.
"I will stay with you until after your return to America," she had said to Helen when her plans were discussed; "but then I must find something to do—some occupation with which to fill my life."
Helen shook her head. "I am sure that George will never consent to that," she answered.
"And what has George to do with it?" asked Marion, amused by the calm, positive tone of Helen's speech. "I am really not aware that he has any control over me."
"Control—no," answered Helen; "but he feels that he owes you so much—the recovery of his father's fortune without any expense or division—that he is anxious to find something he can do for you, and he has said again and again how much he wished that you would allow him to make you independent."
"He could not make me independent of the need to fill my life with some work worth the doing," said Marion. "I do not yet perceive what it is to be, but no doubt I shall find out."
"Of course you will find out," said Claire, with her gentle, unquestioning faith. "God never fails to show the way to one who is willing to see it."
The way, however, had not yet been made clear to Marion as the three sat together on this anniversary of their first parting. She felt the difference between herself and her companions very keenly. To them life showed itself as a clear path, which they had only to follow to be certain that they were in the way of duty. All doubts and perplexities were at an end for them, whereas for her they seemed only beginning. What, indeed, was she to do with her life? She could as yet see no answer to that question, and could only trust that in God's time the way would be made clear to her.
The silence after Claire's last speech lasted some time; for there seemed little to be said, though much to be felt, on the events of the past year. At length Helen observed, looking around toward the hotel, "How long George is in coming! He promised to follow us almost immediately, and I think we must have been here almost an hour."
"Oh! no," said Claire, smiling, "not so long as that. But certainly he has not fulfilled his promise of coming soon."
"And it is a pity," continued Helen; "for just now is the most delightful time to be on the water. I believe I will go and look for him. Will any one else come?"
Claire, who was always in readiness to do anything asked of her, assented and rose. But Marion kept her seat. "I think this is almost as pleasant as being on the water," she said. "But when you have found George, and he has found a boat, and all is in readiness, you may summon me. Meanwhile I am very comfortable where I am."
"We will summon you, then, when we are ready," said Helen. And the two walked away toward the hotel.
Marion, who had still, as of old, a great liking for solitude, settled herself, after the others left, in a corner of the bench on which they had been seated, and looked at the lovely scene before her eyes which saw its beauty as in a dream. She was living over her life of the past year while she gazed at the distant, glittering Alpine summits; and although she had spoken truly in saying that she was deeply conscious of gratitude for many dangers escaped, and chiefly for the wonderful gift of faith, there nevertheless remained a sharp recollection of failure and pain dominating all her thoughts of the past.
Her face was very grave, therefore, and her brows knitted with an expression of thought or suffering, when a man presently came around a bend of the path, and paused an instant, unobserved, to regard her. He saw, or fancied that he saw, many changes in that face since it had fascinated him first; but they were not changes which detracted from its charm. The beauty was as striking as ever, but the expression had altered much. There was no longer a curve of disdain on the perfect lips, nor a light of mockery in the brilliant eyes. The countenance had softened even while it had grown more serious, and its intellectual character was more manifest than ever. These things struck Brian Earle during the minute in which he paused. Then, fearing to be observed, he came forward.
His step on the path roused Marion's attention, and, turning her eyes quickly from the distant scene, she was amazed to see before her the man who was just then most clearly in her thoughts.
Startled almost beyond the power of self-control, she said nothing. It was he who advanced and spoke. "Forgive me if I intrude, Miss Lynde—but I was told that I should find you here; and—and I hoped that you would not object to seeing me."
Marion, who had now recovered herself, held out her hand to meet his, saying, quietly, "Why should I object? But it is a great surprise. I had no idea that you were in this part of the world at all."
"My arrival here is very recent," he said, sitting down beside her; "and you may fancy my surprise when, an hour after my arrival, I met George Singleton, and heard the extraordinary news of his marriage to your cousin."
"That must have astonished you very much. We first heard of it after you left Rome."
"It astonished me the more," he said with some hesitation, "because I had fancied it likely that in the endyouwould marry him."
"I!" she said, coloring quickly and vividly. Then after a moment she added, with a tinge of bitterness in her tone, "Such an idea was natural, perhaps, considering your opinion of me. But it was a great mistake."
"So I have learned," he answered. "But when you speak of my opinion of you, may I ask what you conceive it to be?"
"Is it necessary that we should discuss it?" she asked with a touch of her old haughtiness. "It is not of importance—to me."
"I am sure of that," he said, with something of humility. "But, believe me, your opinion of it is of importance to me. Therefore I should very much like to know what you believe that I think of you."
Her straight brows grew closer together. She spoke with the air of one who wishes to end a disagreeable subject. "This seems to me very unnecessary, Mr. Earle; but, since you insist, I suppose that you think me altogether mercenary and ready, if the opportunity had been given me, to marry your cousin for his fortune."
"Thank you," he answered when she ceased speaking. "I am much obliged by your frankness. I feared that you did me just such injustice; and yet, Miss Lynde, howcanyou? In the first place, do you suppose that I am unaware that you gave his father's fortune intact to my cousin? And in the second place, have I not heard that you refused it when he offered it to you again, with himself? If I had ever fancied you mercenary, could I continue so to mistake you after hearing these things? But indeed I never did think you mercenary, not even in the days when we differed most on the question which finally divided us. I did not thinkthenthat you desired wealth for itself, or that you would have done anything unworthy to gain it; but I thought you exaggerated its value for the sake of the things it could purchase, and I believed then (what Iknownow) that you did injustice to the nobleness of your own nature in setting before yourself worldly prosperity as your ideal of happiness."
She shook her head a little sadly. "The less said of the nobleness of my nature the better," she answered; "but I soon found that the ideal was a very poor one, and one which could not satisfy me. I am glad your cousin came to claim that fortune, which might else have weighed me down with its responsibility to the end."
"And do you forgive me," he said, leaning toward her and lowering his voice, "for having refused that fortune?"
"Does it matter," she answered, somewhat nervously, "whether I forgive you or not? It would have ended in the same way. You, too, would have had to give it up when your cousin appeared."
"But, putting that aside, can you notnowrealize a little better my motives, and forgive whatever seemed harsh or dictatorial in my conduct?"
Marion had grown very pale. "I have no right to judge your conduct," she said.
"You had a right then, and you exercised it severely. Perhaps I was too presumptuous, too decided in my opinion and refusal. I have thought so since, and I should like to hear you say that you forgive it."
"I cannot imagine," she said, with a marked lack of her usual self-possession, "why you should attach any importance to my forgiveness—granting that I have anything to forgive."
"Can you not? Then I will tell you why I attach importance to it. Because during these months of absence I have learned that my attachment to you is as great as it ever was—as great, do I say? Nay, it is much greater, since I know you better now, and the nobleness in which I formerly believed has been proved. I can hardly venture to hope for so much happiness, but if it is possible that you can think of me again, that you can forgive and trust me, I should try, by God's help, to deserve your trust better."
"Do not speak in that manner," said Marion, with trembling lips. "It is I who should ask forgiveness, if there is to be any question of it at all. But I thought you had forgotten me—it was surely natural enough,—and that when you went away it was because—on account of—Claire."
"You were right," he answered, quietly. "I meant to tell you that. In the reaction of my disappointment about you, I thought of your friend; because I admired her so much, I fancied I was in love with her. But when she put an end to such fancies by telling me gently and kindly of her intention to enter the religious life, I learned my mistake. The thought of her passed away like a dream—like a shadow that has crossed a mirror,—and I found that you, Marion, had been in my heart all the time. I tested myself by absence, and I returned with the intention of seeking you wherever you were to be found, and asking you if there is no hope for me—no hope of winning your heart and your trust again."
There was a moment's pause, and then she held out her hand to him.
"You have never lost either," she said.
(The End.)
Transcribers note:The authors use of "woful" instead of "woeful" is legitimate and deliberate.
Transcribers note:The authors use of "woful" instead of "woeful" is legitimate and deliberate.