CHAPTER II
The people from the yacht belonged to that class of men and women whoseuncertainty, or indifference, about the future leads them to takepossession of all they can lay hands on in the present, with a view tosqueezing the world like a lemon for such enjoyment as it may yield. Solong as they tarried at the old hotel, it was their private property.The Bowrings were forgotten; the two English old maids had no existence;the Russian invalid got no more hot water for his tea; the plain butobstinately inquiring German family could get no more information; eventhe quiet young French couple--a honeymoon couple--sank intoinsignificance. The only protest came from an American, whose wife wasill and never appeared, and who staggered the landlord by asking what hewould sell the whole place for on condition of vacating the premisesbefore dinner.
"They will be gone before dinner," the proprietor answered.
But they did not go. When it was already late somebody saw the moonrise, almost full, and suggested that the moonlight would be very fine,and that it would be amusing to dine at the hotel table and spend theevening on the terrace and go on board late.
"I shall," said the little lady in white serge, "whatever the rest ofyou do. Brook! Send somebody on board to get a lot of cloaks and shawlsand things. I am sure it is going to be cold. Don't go away! I want youto take me for a walk before dinner, so as to be nice and hungry, youknow."
For some reason or other, several of the party laughed, and from theirtone one might have guessed that they were in the habit of laughing, orwere expected to laugh, at the lady's speeches. And every one agreedthat it would be much nicer to spend the evening on the terrace, andthat it was a pity that they could not dine out of doors because itwould be far too cool. Then the lady in white and the man called Brookbegan to walk furiously up and down in the fading light, while the ladytalked very fast in a low voice, except when she was passing withinearshot of some of the others, and the man looked straight before him,answering occasionally in monosyllables.
Then there was more confusion in the hotel, and the Russian invalidexpressed his opinion to the two English old maids, with whom hefraternised, that dinner would be an hour late, thanks to theircompatriots. But they assumed an expression appropriate when speaking ofthe peerage, and whispered that the yacht must belong to the Duke ofOrkney, who, they had read, was cruising in the Mediterranean, and thatthe Duke was probably the big man in grey clothes who had a goldcigarette case. But in all this they were quite mistaken. And theirrepeated examinations of the hotel register were altogether fruitless,because none of the party had written their names in it. The old maids,however, were quite happy and resigned to waiting for their dinner. Theypresently retired to attempt for themselves what stingy nature hadrefused to do for them in the way of adornment, for the dinner wasundoubtedly to be an occasion of state, and their eyes were to see theglory of a lord.
The party sat together at one end of the table, which extended the wholelength of the high and narrow vaulted hall, while the guests staying inthe hotel filled the opposite half. Most of the guests were more subduedthan usual, and the party from the yacht seemed noisy by contrast. Theold maids strained their ears to catch a name here and there. Clare andher mother talked little. The Russian invalid put up a single eyeglass,looked long and curiously at each of the new comers in turn, and thendid not vouchsafe them another glance. The German family criticised thefood severely, and then got into a fierce discussion about Bismarck andthe Pope, in the course of which they forgot the existence of theirfellow-diners, but not of their dinner.
Clare could not help glancing once or twice at the couple that hadattracted her attention, and she found herself wondering what theirrelation to each other could be, and whether they were engaged to bemarried. Somebody called the lady in white "Mrs. Crosby." Then somebodyelse called her "Lady Fan"--which was very confusing. "Brook" nevercalled her anything. Clare saw him fill his glass and look at Lady Fanvery hard before he drank, and then Lady Fan did the same thing.Nevertheless they seemed to be perpetually quarrelling over littlethings. When Brook was tired of being bullied, he calmly ignored hiscompanion, turned from her, and talked in a low tone to a dark woman whohad been a beauty and was the most thoroughly well-dressed of theextremely well-dressed party. Lady Fan bit her lip for a moment, andthen said something at which all the others laughed--except Brook andthe advanced beauty, who continued to talk in undertones.
To Clare's mind there was about them all, except Brook, a little dashof something which was not "quite, quite," as the world would haveexpressed it. In her opinion Lady Fan was distinctly disagreeable,whoever she might be--as distinctly so as Brook was the contrary. Andsomehow the girl could not help resenting the woman's way of treatinghim. It offended her oddly and jarred upon her good taste, as somethingto which she was not at all accustomed in her surroundings. Lady Fan wasvery exquisite in her outward ways, and her speech was of the propersmartness. Yet everything she did and said was intensely unpleasant toClare.
The Bowrings and the regular guests finished their dinner before theyachting party, and rose almost in a body, with a clattering of theirlight chairs on the tiled floor. Only the English old maids kept theirplaces a little longer than the rest, and took some more filberts andhalf a glass of white wine, each. They could not keep their eyes fromthe party at the other end of the table, and their faces grew a littleredder as they sat there. Clare and her mother had to go round the longtable to get out, being the last on their side, and they were also thelast to reach the door. Again the young girl felt that strong desire toturn her head and look back at Brook and Lady Fan. She noticed it thistime, as something she had never felt until that afternoon, but shewould not yield to it. She walked on, looking straight at the back ofher mother's head. Then she heard quick footsteps on the tiles behindher, and Brook's voice.
"I beg your pardon," he was saying, "you have dropped your shawl."
She turned quickly, and met his eyes as he stopped close to her, holdingout the white chudder which had slipped to the floor unnoticed when shehad risen from her seat. She took it mechanically and thanked him.Instinctively looking past him down the long hall, she saw that thelittle lady in white had turned in her seat and was watching her. Brookmade a slight bow and was gone again in an instant. Then Clare followedher mother and went out.
"Let us go out behind the house," she said when they were in the broadcorridor. "There will be moonlight there, and those people willmonopolise the terrace when they have finished dinner."
At the western end of the old monastery there is a broad open space,between the buildings and the overhanging rocks, at the base of whichthere is a deep recess, almost amounting to a cave, in which stands agreat black cross planted in a pedestal of whitewashed masonry. A fewsteps lead up to it. As the moon rose higher the cross was in theshadow, while the platform and the buildings were in the full light.
The two women ascended the steps and sat down upon a stone seat.
"What a night!" exclaimed the young girl softly.
Her mother silently bent her head, but neither spoke again for sometime. The moonlight before them was almost dazzling, and the air waswarm. Beyond the stone parapet, far below, the tideless sea was silentand motionless under the moon. A crooked fig-tree, still leafless,though the little figs were already shaped on it, cast its intricateshadow upon the platform. Very far away, a boy was singing a slow minorchant in a high voice. The peace was almost disquieting--there wassomething intensely expectant in it, as though the night were in love,and its heart beating.
Clare sat still, her hand upon her mother's thin wrist, her lips justparted a little, her eyes wide and filled with moon-dreams. She hadalmost lost herself in unworded fancies when her mother moved and spoke.
"I had quite forgotten a letter I was writing," she said. "I must finishit. Stay here, and I will come back again presently."
She rose, and Clare watched her slim dark figure and the long blackshadow that moved with it across the platform towards the open door ofthe hotel. But wh
en it had disappeared the white fancies came flittingback through the silent light, and in the shade the young eyes fixedthemselves quietly to meet the vision and see it all, and to keep it forever if she could.
She did not know what it was that she saw, but it was beautiful, andwhat she felt was on a sudden as the realisation of something she haddimly desired in vain. Yet in itself it was nothing realised; it wasperhaps only the certainty of longing for something all heart and noname, and it was happiness to long for it. For the first intuition oflove is only an exquisite foretaste, a delight in itself, as far fromthe bitter hunger of love starving as a girl's faintness is from a crueldeath. The light was dazzling, and yet it was full of gentle things thatsmiled, somehow, without faces. She was not very imaginative, perhaps,else the faces might have come too, and voices, and all, save the onereality which had as yet neither voice nor face, nor any name. It wasall the something that love was to mean, somewhere, some day--the airylace of a maiden life-dream, in which no figure was yet wrought amongstthe fancy-threads that the May moon was weaving in the soft springnight. There was no sadness in it, at all, for there was no memory, andwithout memory there can be no sadness, any more than there can be fearwhere there is no anticipation, far or near. Most happiness is really ofthe future, and most grief, if we would be honest, is of the past.
The young girl sat still and dreamed that the old world was as young asshe, and that in its soft bosom there were exquisite sweetnessesuntried, and soft yearnings for a beautiful unknown, and little pulsesthat could quicken with foretasted joy which only needed face and nameto take angelic shape of present love. The world could not be old whileshe was young.
And she had her youth and knew it, and it was almost all she had. Itseemed much to her, and she had no unsatisfiable craving for the world'sstuff in which to attire it. In that, at least, her mother had beenwise, teaching her to believe and to enjoy, rather than to doubt andcriticise, and if there had been anything to hide from her it had beenhidden, even beyond suspicion of its presence. Perhaps the armour ofknowledge is of little worth until doubt has shaken the heart andweakened the joints, and broken the terrible steadfastness of perfectinnocence in the eyes. Clare knew that she was young, she felt that thewhite dream was sweet, and she believed that the world's heart wasclean and good. All good was natural and eternal, lofty and splendid asan archangel in the light. God had made evil as a background of shadowsto show how good the light was. Every one could come and stand in thelight if he chose, for the mere trouble of moving. It seemed so simple.She wondered why everybody could not see it as she did.
A flash of white in the white moonlight disturbed her meditations. Twopeople had come out of the door and were walking slowly across theplatform side by side. They were not speaking, and their footstepscrushed the light gravel sharply as they came forward. Clare recognisedBrook and Lady Fan. Seated in the shadow on one side of the great blackcross and a little behind it, she could see their faces distinctly, butshe had no idea that they were dazzled by the light and could not seeher at all in her dark dress. She fancied that they were looking at heras they came on.
The shadow of the rock had crept forward upon the open space, while shehad been dreaming. The two turned, just before they reached it, and thenstood still, instead of walking back.
"Brook--" began Lady Fan, as though she were going to say something.
But she checked herself and looked up at him quickly, chilled already byhis humour. Clare thought that the woman's voice shook a little, as shepronounced the name. Brook did not turn his head nor look down.
"Yes?" he said, with a sort of interrogation. "What were you going tosay?" he asked after a moment's pause.
She seemed to hesitate, for she did not answer at once. Then she glancedtowards the hotel and looked down.
"You won't come back with us?" she asked, at last, in a pleading voice.
"I can't," he answered. "You know I can't. I've got to wait for themhere."
"Yes, I know. But they are not here yet. I don't believe they are comingfor two or three days. You could perfectly well come on to Genoa withus, and get back by rail."
"No," said Brook quietly, "I can't."
"Would you, if you could?" asked the lady in white, and her tone beganto change again.
"What a question!" he laughed drily.
"It is an odd question, isn't it, coming from me?" Her voice grew hard,and she stopped. "Well--you know what it means," she added abruptly."You may as well answer it and have it over. It is very easy to say youwould not, if you could. I shall understand all the rest, and you willbe saved the trouble of saying things--things which I should think youwould find it rather hard to say."
"Couldn't you say them, instead?" he asked slowly, and looking at herfor the first time. He spoke gravely and coldly.
"I!" There was indignation, real or well affected, in the tone.
"Yes, you," answered the man, with a shade less coldness, but as gravelyas before. "You never loved me."
Lady Fan's small white face was turned to his instantly, and Clare couldsee the fierce, hurt expression in the eyes and about the quiveringmouth. The young girl suddenly realised that she was accidentallyoverhearing something which was very serious to the two speakers. Itflashed upon her that they had not seen her where she sat in the shadow,and she looked about her hastily in the hope of escaping unobserved. Butthat was impossible. There was no way of getting out of the recess ofthe rock where the cross stood, except by coming out into the light, andno way of reaching the hotel except by crossing the open platform.
Then she thought of coughing, to call attention to her presence. Shewould rise and come forward, and hurry across to the door. She felt thatshe ought to have come out of the shadows as soon as the pair hadappeared, and that she had done wrong in sitting still. But then, shetold herself with perfect justice that they were strangers, and thatshe could not possibly have foreseen that they had come there toquarrel.
They were strangers, and she did not even know their names. So far asthey were concerned, and their feelings, it would be much more pleasantfor them if they never suspected that any one had overheard them than ifshe were to appear in the midst of their conversation, having evidentlybeen listening up to that point. It will be admitted that, being awoman, she had a choice; for she knew that if she had been in Lady Fan'splace she should have preferred never to know that any one had heardher. She fancied what she should feel if any one should coughunexpectedly behind her when she had just been accused by the man sheloved of not loving him at all. And of course the little lady in whiteloved Brook--she had called him "dear" that very afternoon. But thatBrook did not love Lady Fan was as plain as possible.
There was certainly no mean curiosity in Clare to know the secrets ofthese strangers. But all the same, she would not have been a human girl,of any period in humanity's history, if she had not been profoundlyinterested in the fate of the woman before her. That afternoon she wouldhave thought it far more probable that the woman should break the man'sheart than that she should break her own for him. But now it lookedotherwise. Clare thought there was no mistaking the first tremor of thevoice, the look of the white face, and the indignation of the toneafterwards. With a man, the question of revealing his presence as athird person would have been a point of honour. In Clare's case it was aquestion of delicacy and kindness as from one woman to another.
Nevertheless, she hesitated, and she might have come forward after all.Ten slow seconds had passed since Brook had spoken. Then Lady Fan'slittle figure shook, her face turned away, and she tried to choke downone small bitter sob, pressing her handkerchief desperately to her lips.
"Oh, Brook!" she cried, a moment later, and her tiny teeth tore the edgeof the handkerchief audibly in the stillness.
"It's not your fault," said the man, with an attempt at gentleness inhis voice. "I couldn't blame you, if I were brute enough to wish to."
"Blame me! Oh, really--I think you're mad, you know!"
"Besides," continued the young
man, philosophically, "I think we oughtto be glad, don't you?"
"Glad?"
"Yes--that we are not going to break our hearts now that it's over."
Clare thought his tone horribly business-like and indifferent.
"Oh no! We sha'n't break our hearts any more! We are not children." Hervoice was thin and bitter, with a crying laugh in it.
"Look here, Fan!" said Brook suddenly. "This is all nonsense. We agreedto play together, and we've played very nicely, and now you have to gohome, and I have got to stay here, whether I like it or not. Let us begood friends and say good-bye, and if we meet again and have nothingbetter to do, we can play again if we please. But as for taking it inthis tragical way--why, it isn't worth it."
The young girl crouching in the shadow felt as though she had beenstruck, and her heart went out with indignant sympathy to the littlelady in white.
"Do you know? I think you are the most absolutely brutal, cynicalcreature I ever met!" There was anger in the voice, now, and somethingmore--something which Clare could not understand.
"Well, I'm sorry," answered the man. "I don't mean to be brutal, I'msure, and I don't think I'm cynical either. I look at things as theyare, not as they ought to be. We are not angels, and the millenniumhasn't come yet. I suppose it would be bad for us if it did, just now.But we used to be very good friends last year. I don't see why weshouldn't be again."
"Friends! Oh no!"
Lady Fan turned from him and made a step or two alone, out through themoonlight, towards the house. Brook did not move. Perhaps he knew thatshe would come back, as indeed she did, stopping suddenly and turninground to face him again.
"Brook," she began more softly, "do you remember that evening up at theAcropolis--at sunset? Do you remember what you said?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"You said that if I could get free you would marry me."
"Yes." The man's tone had changed suddenly.
"Well--I believed you, that's all."
Brook stood quite still, and looked at her quietly. Some seconds passedbefore she spoke again.
"You did not mean it?" she asked sorrowfully.
Still he said nothing.
"Because you know," she continued, her eyes fixed on his, "the positionis not at all impossible. All things considered, I suppose I could havea divorce for the asking."
Clare started a little in the dark. She was beginning to guess somethingof the truth she could not understand. The man still said nothing, buthe began to walk up and down slowly, with folded arms, along the edge ofthe shadow before Lady Fan as she stood still, following him with hereyes.
"You did not mean a word of what you said that afternoon? Not one word?"She spoke very slowly and distinctly.
He was silent still, pacing up and down before her. Suddenly, without aword, she turned from him and walked quickly away, towards the hotel. Hestarted and stood still, looking after her--then he also made a step.
"Fan!" he called, in a tone she could hear, but she went on. "Mrs.Crosby!" he called again.
She stopped, turned, and waited. It was clear that Lady Fan was anickname, Clare thought.
"Well?" she asked.
Clare clasped her hands together in her excitement, watching andlistening, and holding her breath.
"Don't go like that!" exclaimed Brook, going forward and holding out onehand.
"Do you want me?" asked the lady in white, very gently, almosttenderly. Clare did not understand how any woman could have so littlepride, but she pitied the little lady from her heart.
Brook went on till he came up with Lady Fan, who did not make a step tomeet him. But just as he reached her she put out her hand to take his.Clare thought he was relenting, but she was mistaken. His voice cameback to her clear and distinct, and it had a very gentle ring in it.
"Fan, dear," he said, "we have been very fond of each other in ourcareless way. But we have not loved each other. We may have thought thatwe did, for a moment, now and then. I shall always be fond of you, justin that way. I'll do anything for you. But I won't marry you, if you geta divorce. It would be utter folly. If I ever said I would, in so manywords--well, I'm ashamed of it. You'll forgive me some day. One saysthings--sometimes--that one means for a minute, and then, afterwards,one doesn't mean them. But I mean what I am saying now."
He dropped her hand, and stood looking at her, and waiting for her tospeak. Her face, as Clare saw it, from a distance now, looked whiterthan ever. After an instant she turned from him with a quick movement,but not towards the hotel.
She walked slowly towards the stone parapet of the platform. As shewent, Clare again saw her raise her handkerchief and press it to herlips, but she did not bend her head. She went and leaned on her elbowson the parapet, and her hands pulled nervously at the handkerchief asshe looked down at the calm sea far below. Brook followed her slowly,but just as he was near, she, hearing his footsteps, turned and leanedback against the low wall.
"Give me a cigarette," she said in a hard voice. "I'm nervous--and I'vegot to face those people in a moment."
Clare started again in sheer surprise. She had expected tears, fainting,angry words, a passionate appeal--anything rather than what she heard.Brook produced a silver case which gleamed in the moonlight. Lady Fantook a cigarette, and her companion took another. He struck a match andheld it up for her in the still air. The little flame cast its red glareinto their faces. The young girl had good eyes, and as she watched themshe saw the man's expression was grave and stern, a little sad, perhaps,but she fancied that there was the beginning of a scornful smile on thewoman's lips. She understood less clearly then than ever what manner ofhuman beings these two strangers might be.
For some moments they smoked in silence, the lady in white leaning backagainst the parapet, the man standing upright with one hand in hispocket, holding his cigarette in the other, and looking out to sea. ThenLady Fan stood up, too, and threw her cigarette over the wall.
"It's time to be going," she said, suddenly. "They'll be coming after usif we stay here."
But she did not move. Sideways she looked up into his face. Then sheheld out her hand.
"Good-bye, Brook," she said, quietly enough, as he took it.
"Good-bye," he murmured in a low voice, but distinctly.
Their hands stayed together after they had spoken, and still she lookedup to him in the moonlight. Suddenly he bent down and kissed her on theforehead--in an odd, hasty way.
"I'm sorry, Fan, but it won't do," he said.
"Again!" she answered. "Once more, please!" And she held up her face.
He kissed her again, but less hastily, Clare thought, as she watchedthem. Then, without another word, they walked towards the hotel, side byside, close together, so that their hands almost touched. When they werenot ten paces from the door, they stopped again and looked at eachother.
At that moment Clare saw her mother's dark figure on the threshold. Thepair must have heard her steps, for they separated a little andinstantly went on, passing Mrs. Bowring quickly. Clare sat still in herplace, waiting for her mother to come to her. She feared lest, if shemoved, the two might come back for an instant, see her, and understandthat they had been watched. Mrs. Bowring went forward a few steps.
"Clare!" she called.
"Yes," answered the young girl softly. "Here I am."
"Oh--I could not see you at all," said her mother. "Come down into themoonlight."
The young girl descended the steps, and the two began to walk up anddown together on the platform.
"Those were two of the people from the yacht that I met at the door,"said Mrs. Bowring. "The lady in white serge, and that good-looking youngman."
"Yes," Clare answered. "They were here some time. I don't think they sawme."
She had meant to tell her mother something of what had happened, in thehope of being told that she had done right in not revealing herpresence. But on second thoughts she resolved to say nothing about it.To have told the story would have seemed like betraying
a confidence,even though they were strangers to her.
"I could not help wondering about them this afternoon," said Mrs.Bowring. "She ordered him about in a most extraordinary way, as thoughhe had been her servant. I thought it in very bad taste, to say theleast of it. Of course I don't know anything about their relations, butit struck me that she wished to show him off, as her possession."
"Yes," answered Clare, thoughtfully. "I thought so too."
"Very foolish of her! No man will stand that sort of thing long. Thatisn't the way to treat a man in order to keep him."
"What is the best way?" asked the young girl idly, with a little laugh.
"Don't ask me!" answered Mrs. Bowring quickly, as they turned in theirwalk. "But I should think--" she added, a moment later, "I don'tknow--but I should think--" she hesitated.
"What?" inquired Clare, with some curiosity.
"Well, I was going to say, I should think that a man would wish to feelthat he is holding, not that he is held. But then people are sodifferent! One can never tell. At all events, it is foolish to wish toshow everybody that you own a man, so to say."
Mrs. Bowring seemed to be considering the question, but she evidentlyfound nothing more to say about it, and they walked up and down insilence for a long time, each occupied with her own thoughts. Then allat once there was a sound of many voices speaking English, and trying togive orders in Italian, and the words "Good-bye, Brook!" sounded severaltimes above the rest. Little by little, all grew still again.
"They are gone at last," said Mrs. Bowring, with a sigh of relief.
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