Chapter XXXIV

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."