Phyllis Bottome - The Dark Tower

“Look here, I won’t take to drink. I’d like to, but I won’t.” And Claire leaned toward him and kissed him, and he said a moment later, with a little half laugh:

“D’you know, I rather wish you hadn’t done that. You never have before, and I sha’n’t be able to forget it. You put the stopper on to that intention.”

And Claire said nothing, smiling into the darkness.

Claire had never been alone with Miss Marley before; she had known her only as an accompaniment to Winn; but she had been aware, even in these partial encounters, that she was being benevolently judged. It must be owned that earlier in the day she had learned, with a sinking of the heart, that she must give up the evening to Miss Marley. When every hour counted as a victory over time, she could not understand how Winn could let her go; and yet he had said quite definitely: “I want you to go to Miss Marley this evening. She’d like to talk to you, and I think you’d better.”

But something happened which changed her feelings. Miss Marley was a woman despite the Cresta and there are times when only a woman’s judgment can satisfy the heart of a girl. Claire was startled and perturbed by Maurice’s sudden intervention. Maurice said:

“That chap Staines is getting you talked about. Pretty low down of him, as I believe he’s married.” She was pulled up short in the golden stream of her love. She saw for the first time the face of opinion — that hostile, stupid, interfering face. Claire had never thought that by any malign possibility they could be supposed to be doing wrong. She could not connect wrong with either her love or Winn’s. If there was one quality more than another which had distinguished it, it had been its simple sense of rightness. She had seen Winn soften and change under it as the hard earth changes at the touch of spring. She had felt herself enriched and enlarged, moving more unswervingly than ever toward her oldest prayer — that she might, on the whole, be good. She hardly prayed at all about Winn; loving him was her prayer.

If she had meant to take him away from Estelle or to rob him of Peter, then she knew she would have been wrong. But in this fortnight she was taking nothing from Estelle that Estelle had ever had, and she was doing no harm to Peter. It would not be likely to do him any harm to soften his father’s heart.

Claire’s morality consisted solely in the consideration of other people; her instincts revolted against unkindness. It was an early Christian theory much lost sight of, “Love, and do as you please,” the safety of the concession resting upon the quality of the love.

But to-night another idea had occurred to her, and she was very uneasy. Was it really possible that any one could blame Winn? Her first instinct had been sheer anger, and her anger had carried her past fear into the pride of love. She had felt as if she wanted to confront the world and defy it. If the world dared judge them, what did it matter? Their hearts were clean. She was too young to know that under the world’s judgments clean hearts break even more easily than soiled ones.

But her mind had not rested there. She had begun to be afraid for Winn, and with all her heart she longed to see him justified. What had he ever done that he could be judged? He had loved her, spared her, guarded her. He had made, he was making, inconceivable sacrifices for her. He was killing not only his own joy, but hers rather than do her what he thought a wrong.

She sat on a footstool in front of Miss Marley’s wood fire, frowning at the flames. Miss Marley watched her cautiously; there was a good deal she wanted to say, but she hoped that most of it might be said by Claire. A very careful talker can get a good deal expressed in this way; impressions, to be permanent, must always come from the person you wish to impress.

“Miss Marley,” Claire began, “do you think it matters what people think?”

Miss Marley, who invariably rolled her own cigarettes, took up a small silver box, flattened the cigarette-paper out carefully, and prepared to fill it before answering. Then she said:

“Very few people do think; that is generally what matters — absence of thought. Speech without thought is responsible for most people’s disasters.”

“But it can’t matter what people say if it isn’t true, can it?” Claire persisted. “I mean — nonsense can’t count against any one?”

“I’m rather afraid it does matter,” said Miss Marley, lighting her cigarette. “Nonsense is very infectious, and it often carries a good deal of weight. I have known nonsense break people’s hearts.”

“Oh!” said Claire in a rising breath. She was wondering what it was like to have a broken heart. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that she was going to have one, half of one; but what really frightened her was that the other half was going to belong to Winn.

“Could any one,” she said under her breath, “think any harm of him? He told me you knew all about us, and that I might talk to you if I wanted to; but I didn’t then. There didn’t seem anything to say. But now I do want to know; I want to know awfully what you think. If I asked him, he’d only laugh or else he’d be angry. He’s very young in some ways, you know, Miss Marley — younger than I am.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Marley; “men are always, to the end of their lives, very young in some ways.”

“I never thought,” Claire went on breathlessly, “that people would dream of blaming him because we were together. Why, it’s so stupid! If they only knew! He’s so good!”

“If he’s that,” said Miss Marley, smiling into the fire, “you’ve succeeded in making a saint of a Staines, a very difficult experiment! I shouldn’t advise you to run away too much with that idea, however.”

“It isn’t me; it’s him,” exclaimed Claire, regardless of grammar. “I mean, after what Maurice said this afternoon — I don’t know how to put it quite — I almost wish we’d both been bad!”

Miss Marley nodded. She knew the danger of blame when a tug of war is in progress, and how it weakens the side attacked.

“How can I explain to people,” Claire went on, “what he’s been like? I don’t know whether I’ve told you, but he went away almost directly he found out he cared, before — long before he knew I cared, though he might have known; and he left a message to tell me about his wife, which I never got. But, oh, Miss Marley, I’ve never told him, I should have come if I’d got it or not! I should really, because I had to know if he cared! So you see, don’t you, that if either of us was wicked it was me? Only I didn’t feel wicked; I really felt awfully good. I don’t see how you’re to tell what’s right if God doesn’t let you know and people talk nonsense.”

“It’s not,” agreed Miss Marley, dryly, “particularly easy to know.”

“And his wife doesn’t care for him,” Claire went on. “Fancy Winn’s wife not caring for him! Poor woman!”

“Why do you pity her?” Miss Marley inquired with interest.

“Well,” said Claire, with a sudden dimple, “I was only thinking I shouldn’t like to be Winn’s wife if he didn’t care for me; and then I was thinking that if he didn’t, I’d make him!”

“Well, that effort doesn’t seem required of you,” said Miss Marley.

“No, but it only shows you that I’m much the most wicked, doesn’t it?” asked Claire, with some pride.

“The points against Winn,” Miss Marley said gravely, “are his age, his experience, and his wife. I feel bound to tell you that there are points against him.”

Claire frowned.

“Winn isn’t really old,” she explained, “because he’s only done things all his life — games or his work; it hasn’t been people. People make you old, especially when you are looking after them. He’s never really grown up; and as for experience, I don’t think you experience anything unless you care about it. It hurts me sometimes to hear him talk about his wife. He’s never had her; he’s only had me. I don’t explain very well, but I know it’s true, because he told me things about loving which showed me he’d never had anything before except dogs — and Peter; and Peter’s awfully young, and dogs can’t answer back. You can’t grow up on dogs.”

Miss Marley tacitly admitted the limitations of canine influence; but she said:

“Still, you know, he’s not kept to his own code; that’s what one must judge people by. I’m sure he’d tell you himself that a married man should leave girls alone.”

Claire thought for a moment, then she said:

“Yes, but he’s gone deeper than his code now. Don’t you think that perhaps a smash, even of something you value, makes you grow? I don’t know how to put it quite, but if you never did what you thought wrong, would you ever know how big right is? Besides, he hasn’t gone on doing it. Perhaps he did start wrong in getting to care, but that only makes it harder and finer, his stopping himself. Very few people, I think, but Winn could stop themselves, and nobody but Winn could ever care — so much.” Her voice broke, and she turned away her head.

“What,” said Miss Marley, rolling another cigarette, “are your plans?”

Miss Marley felt that she must give up first principles but she hoped that she might still be able to do something about plans.

“We are going to drive over the Maloja to Chiavenna,” said Claire; “Maurice has a party to go with. We shall start by the earlier post, and have lunch together at Vico-Soprano before he comes. And then when Maurice comes we shall say good-by; and then — and then, Miss Marley, I’ve been thinking — we mustn’t meet again! I haven’t told Winn yet, because he likes to talk as if we could, in places awfully far away and odd, with you to chaperon us. I think it helps him to talk like that but I don’t think now that we must ever meet again. You won’t blame him if I tell you something, will you?”