"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."