Chapter XXXVI: 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.