And so 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 that _you_ would 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 one _cannot_ serve 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 distress _you_," 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 is
_you_, 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 were _my_ vocation 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 Helen _did_
suit 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 that _you_ lost. 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.
_Now_ it 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 year from 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 end _you_ would 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, how _can_ you? 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 think _then_ that 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 I _know_ now) 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 not _now_ realize 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.