Soon after 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 for _me_ can 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 my _first_ vocation."
"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--"
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. Let _them_ go 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?--could _nothing_ induce 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.