XII.

CLAUDIA'S BIRTHRIGHT.

To the day's rain succeeded a bright, delicious morning, with clear, cool air, that sang in soft melody among the trees, and whispered over the waters with a siren voice. A serene sky, flecked with dreamy trails, wandering purposeless over the luminous blue. There had been times in Claudia's life when such a dawn would have proved an inspiration; but now she seemed too utterly adrift to concentrate her energies. The awe that lingered in the house was still strong upon her. And the prospect of separation for now she began to feel the curious charm that Rose had always exerted over every one, herself not entirely excepted. When one has had some peculiar drain on the mental and physical energies, and this is suddenly removed, it has the effect at first of an actual loss. Life narrowed to her. Was not the struggle too severe for the end attained?

She knew she should undertake it for all the weariness and shrinking now. Go abroad with Barbara, study and paint, perhaps succeed tolerably well. A long life was before her, and to idle it away in vain regrets would only be perpetuating misery. If these partings were but over!

One came speedily. In this beautiful morning, robed and coffined, little Ariel was borne forth to his resting-place. As the carriage rolled away, Rose sank into a death-like swoon, again growing so rigid that Claudia was alarmed.

Dr. Brevoort had provided for such a contingency, well aware that any intensity of feeling might lead to a recurrence in her weak state. They administered the remedies successfully, darkened the room, and sought to soothe her into slumber.

"I shall do very well with her," Barbara whispered, presently. “Mr. Dana gave me a note for you; " and she slipped it

into Claudia's hand.

Claudia Varian stole noiselessly out of the room, and went to her studio. The shutters were but partially open, and the light was mellowed to a beguiling softness. She seated herself, and sank into one of those calms that not unfrequently come upon the soul before any great crisis. She did not even wonder at first what he had written, it seemed so far from any purpose of her present life.

The moments glided by. Was she dreaming?

It contained but two lines, these:
: -

"I have heard all of your history that it is necessary for a third person to tell; the rest I shall ask from yourself, this evening. FELIX DANA."

She folded the note

It did not move her in any respect. again, and let it lie in her lap. Yesterday it would have given her the wildest thrill; to-day it was a mere fact, one of the duties incident to the present that she must meet.

And then a troubled question arose. She was to take up a woman's existence. The spell that had induced her to begin her strange masquerade was at an end, the necessity over. She was glad to come back. Latterly the desire had been intense. That Dana expected this of her, she was certain. But how to assume the old ease and grace puzzled her sorely. And how to meet him; for the recollection of that last parting was burned into her soul as with a tracery of flame. Did he mean her to justify herself? How much had she forfeited!

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Barbara," she said, in a languid manner, an hour or two later, "I am coming back to womanhood. I suppose I ought never to have left it; but it was the easiest manner of solving the difficulty then. And yet I do not believe God ever means us to go out of the beaten track. He sets a seal upon us at our birth, and strive we never so hard, we are still women."

"I am glad it has ended," the housekeeper said, with a sigh of relief.

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Barbara, am I turning to stone? For I cannot seem to feel anything. Yesterday was a continual warfare, and my senses took in every impression. To-day is an unillumined polar solitude. I neither regret nor approve the past. It is like waking from a troubled dream, and reaching out your hand in the dark. No one takes it."

The immovable face, and slow-falling tones smote the heart of the listener. She had always realized that this girl stood on a much higher plane than herself, and with her love had been mingled an element of worship. She pitied Claudia profoundly now, and longed to comfort her; but there was in Barbara's heart a vein of delicacy. After a moment, her strong common sense came to the rescue.

"Yes," she said, "the sooner this disguise is over the better. And you must have a dress."

It sounded so oddly that Claudia smiled. She wondered, too, if she should not miss the freedom to which she had so long been accustomed, and the sort of fictitious strength that had proved a rock to her, crumbling now to sand indeed.

"I shall not know myself," she mused. "Is there anything that will do?"

"I can find something, I think."

And Barbara plunged into the closet, where stood a trunk of long unused clothes.

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Barbara," Claudia said, presently, in the same steady voice, "there will soon be a change for us all. Dr. Brevoort means to settle in the city. Rose will have a bright life before her. And why not? Her salvation will never be worked out through waves of trouble. I am glad the certainty has come for her. And we will go to Rome. You will not refuse me this, Barbara? I shall be all alone."

There was an inexpressible pathos in the last sentence. She was steadily ignoring the dream that had looked possible a fortnight ago.

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'Child," Barbara said, much moved, "do you think I could desert you?"

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If

Thank Heaven for one trusty friend. were there, or if life was through with ! Will ambition ever rouse me again?

No, you will not. it was all over and we I feel so old and worn. "You are tired in body and soul. You have slept so little, and the late excitements have been most wearing. Rose will do well enough now, and I shall send you to bed. You are not to think of the dress, or anything, but just rest."

Claudia made some weak objection that Barbara overruled. Though she could not understand the fine gradations of the other's mood, she felt there was an urgent necessity now for a strong influence upon this soul, tossed about like a frail ship at sea. Adjoining the studio was a sleeping-room, and Barbara led her thither, arranged the pillows, and shut out the light. You are to lie still for two hours,” she said, in her determined manner.

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Claudia felt like a child in her hands. She closed her eyes and lay quite still, breathing slowly. At first she had no idea of sleep. A dumb oppression reigned over every sense, that made the quiet and the silence most grateful. For a while she followed slow-moving, disconnected thoughts, that wandered over her like autumn clouds; then came a mysterious cessation from effort, brooding about her like a heavenly peace, and wafting her to some far land. Faint strains of music, dim remembrances of a blessed time when the soul was free as now. And nature, wearied with the intense strain, relaxed entirely.

Some time later she awoke refreshed. A quiet dinner with Barbara, a glimpse of Rose growing bright and bewildering again in the sunshine of love, and then Claudia went to her painting, for she felt strong, and must either work or think. It was not so much hope that actuated her, as a firm resolve to endure bravely whatever loneliness might be her lot; courage, now, rather than despair.

She kept her mood until nightfall, when, being dressed, there

was nothing further to do but wait. And then a sense of shame overtook her, a trembling and shrinking. Fain would she have delayed the interview; but even while she thought, a light ring announced Dana. He did not pause this time for Rose or Brevoort, but came straight up the stairs, every sound of his elastic tread as distinct to her as if he had been in the Not hurrying, and yet it appeared but an instant. Claudia took one step forward, and then stood still. She was to read her fate in this man's aspect at a glance, she told herself. Did she?

room.

It was inscrutable then. He had too much at stake, was too intent upon his own desires, to carry them fully in his face. The brow was pale, not with coldness, but rather with the white heat that quivered in every feature, and the eyes were sublimed with an expression so subtile and delicate, so veiled by patience, that the intense warmth of temperament was scarcely discernible. No far ray of light revealed the secret held in a thrall that was torture, for now something more than mere love was at stake. The bliss or misery of a lifetime. Warily would he note, wisely discern.

She looked more lovely in this waning light than his dreams of her had been. Not the bewildering beauty of Rose, not the seductive sweetness and softness, considered one of a woman's most potent attributes. She was to be judged in her strength and her power, for through these she had sinned, if sin it were. And yet the fatigue had given her a peculiar languor; the flowing robe, clinging about her, displayed the perfect symmetry of her figure as he had never seen it before.

"Claudia!"

The voice was not entreating. It left her quite free. Too cold for love, she thought it at first, and a tremor seized her limbs. Had she not told herself all the time that it could never be love?

"Claudia!"

She took one step nearer, but the floor quaked uncertainly