Four months afterwards Marietta received a letter from the superior of
her convent. She sat reading it in a clean and comfortably furnished
room. Though to all appearances perfectly happy, her face wore an
expression of sadness, and tears fell on the missive in her hand.
At length she rose, placed the letter in the pocket of her gown, and
after packing up a costume she had just finished making for Edward
Thornhill, made her way to his studio.
He praised her work. He had never found anybody so clever at carrying
out suggestions as Marietta; but to-day his commendation brought no
pleasure into her face, and the artist was quick to notice her changed
manner.
"You are sad, Marietta?"
"No," she answered hastily, turning to leave the studio.
"Why no, when you mean yes?" he asked, following her.
She did not reply, but the tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon her
dress.
"Tell me what grieves you. I helped you once, and may be able to do so
again."
She took the Reverend Mother's letter from her pocket and placed it in
his hand. It contained a few lines, saying that they would expect their
child back in a fortnight's time.
"Then you are going to leave us after all?"
"It is better so."
"But it makes you sad the thought of going?"
"Yes," she said, with downcast face.
"The sisters would not wish you to take the veil if you or they doubted
your vocation for such a surrender?"
"I don't understand."
"Your heart must be in this sacrament, your whole heart, you must have
no longings after the world. Is it not so?"
"Oh yes," she said, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes.
"Have you any longings that might be a shadow on your nun's life, my
child? Have you? Nay, don't be afraid to speak."
"Oh, don't ask me," she said, repressing her sobs.
"You do not think your life here involves a sin? You have enabled me to
paint a heavenly image that might, so far as the pure spirit of it goes,
decorate the fairest church. I do not say the work, Marietta, but the
intention, the inspiration."
She found this question too subtle for her comprehension, but there was
something in the artist's tone and manner that thrilled her, something
that was like the influence of the _Magnificat_ in the great choir of
the cathedral. She turned her wondering eyes towards him, and he took
her hands in his.
"You have been happy here?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Yes, very."
"Then why leave me? Put up with the gloom and fog for my sake, Marietta.
Be the artist's little wife as well as his model."
The sun came streaming into the studio as he bent over her fair hands
and kissed them.
"It is not all gloom and fog," she replied. "To-day the London sun is as
bright and warm as it was in Italy when I was a child."
It was not alone the London sun, it was the sunshine of the heart; and
it lasted all through the remainder of Marietta's life.
[Illustration]