It was 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
that _you_ would 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? _I_ said
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,--_you_ chose 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--it
_must_ mean--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 that
_you_ were 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 it _is_ a 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's _salon_, 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 she _had_ been 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 to _me_ I 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."