Clare went directly to her mother’s room. She had hardly spoken again during the few minutes while she had necessarily remained with the Johnstones, climbing the hill back to the hotel. At the door she had stood aside to let Lady Johnstone go in, Sir Adam had followed his wife, and Brook had lingered, doubtless hoping to exchange a few words more with Clare. But she was preoccupied, and had not vouchsafed him a glance.

“They have come,” she said, as she closed Mrs. Bowring’s door behind her.

Her mother was seated by the open window, her hands lying idly in her lap, her face turned away, as Clare entered. She started slightly, and looked round.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Already! Well—it had to come. Have you met?”

Clare told her all that had happened.

“And he said that he was glad?” asked Mrs. Bowring, with the ghost of a smile.

“He said so—yes. His voice was cold. But when he first heard my name and asked about my father his face softened.”

“His face softened,” repeated Mrs. Bowring to herself, just above a whisper, as the ghost of the smile flitted about her pale lips.

“He seemed glad at first, and then he looked displeased. Is that it?” she asked, raising her voice again.

“That was what I thought,” answered Clare. “Why don’t you have luncheon in your room, mother?” she asked suddenly.

“He would think I was afraid to meet him,” said the elder woman.

A long silence followed, and Clare sat down on a stiff straw chair, looking out of the window. At last she turned to her mother again.

“You couldn’t tell me all about it, could you, mother dear?” she asked. “It seems to me it would be so much easier for us both. Perhaps I could help you. And I myself—I should know better how to act.”

“No. I can’t tell you. I only pray that I may never have to. As for you, darling—be natural. It is a very strange position to be in, but you cannot know it—you can’t be supposed to know it. I wish I could have kept my secret better—but I broke down when you told me about the yacht. You can only help me in one way—don’t ask me questions, dear. It would be harder for me, if you knew—indeed it would. Be natural. You need not run after them, you know—”

“I should think not!” cried Clare indignantly.

“I mean, you need not go and sit by them and talk to them for long at a time. But don’t be suddenly cold and rude to their son. There’s nothing against—I mean, it has nothing to do with him. You mustn’t think it has, you know. Be natural—be yourself.”

“It’s not altogether easy to be natural under the circumstances,” Clare answered, with some truth, and a great deal of repressed curiosity which she did her best to hide away altogether for her mother’s sake.

At luncheon the Johnstones were all three placed on the opposite side of the table, and Brook was no longer Clare’s neighbour. The Bowrings were already in their places when the three entered, Sir Adam giving his arm to his wife, who seemed to need help in walking, or at all events to be glad of it. Brook followed at a little distance, and Clare saw that he was looking at her regretfully, as though he wished himself at her side again. Had she been less young and unconscious and thoroughly innocent, she must have seen by this time that he was seriously in love with her.

Sir Adam held his wife’s chair for her, with somewhat old-fashioned courtesy, and pushed it gently as she sat down. Then he raised his head, and his eyes met Mrs. Bowring’s. For a few moments they looked at each other. Then his expression changed and softened, as it had when he had first met Clare, but Mrs. Bowring’s face grew hard and pale. He did not sit down, but to his wife’s surprise walked quietly all round the end of the table and up the other side to where Mrs. Bowring sat. She knew that he was coming, and she turned a little to meet his hand. The English old maids watched the proceedings with keen interest from the upper end.

Sir Adam held out his hand, and Mrs. Bowring took it.

“It is a great pleasure to me to meet you again,” he said slowly, as though speaking with an effort. “Brook says that you have been very good to him, and so I want to thank you at once. Yes—this is your daughter—Brook introduced me. Excuse me—I’ll get round to my place again. Shall we meet after luncheon?”

“If you like,” said Mrs. Bowring in a constrained tone. “By all means,” she added nervously.

“My dear,” said Sir Adam, speaking across the table to his wife, “let me introduce you to my old friend Mrs. Bowring, the mother of this young lady whom you have already met,” he added, glancing down at Clare’s flaxen head.

Again Lady Johnstone slightly bent her apoplectic neck, but her expression was not stony, as it had been when she had first looked at Clare. On the contrary, she smiled very pleasantly and naturally, and her frank blue eyes looked at Mrs. Bowring with a friendly interest.

Clare thought that she heard a faint sigh of relief escape her mother’s lips just then. Sir Adam’s heavy steps echoed upon the tile floor, as he marched all round the table again to his seat. The table itself was narrow, and it was easy to talk across it, without raising the voice. Sir Adam sat on one side of his wife, and Brook on the other, last on his side, as Clare was on hers.

There was very little conversation at first. Brook did not care to talk across to Clare, and Sir Adam seemed to have said all he meant to say for the present. Lady Johnstone, who seemed to be a cheerful, conversational soul, began to talk to Mrs. Bowring, evidently attracted by her at first sight.

“It’s a beautiful place when you get here,” she said. “Isn’t it? The view from my window is heavenly! But to get here! Dear me! I was carried up by two men, you know, and I thought they would have died. I hope they are enjoying their dinner, poor fellows! I’m sure they never carried such a load before!”

And she laughed, with a sort of frank, half self-commiserating amusement at her own proportions.

“Oh, I fancy they must be used to it,” said Mrs. Bowring, reassuringly, for the sake of saying something.

“They’ll hate the sight of me in a week!” said Lady Johnstone. “I mean to go everywhere, while I’m here—up all the hills, and down all the valleys. I always see everything when I come to a new place. It’s pleasant to sit still afterwards, and feel that you’ve done it all, don’t you know? I shall ruin you in porters, Adam,” she added, turning her large round face slowly to her husband.

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Sir Adam, nodding gravely, as he dissected the bones out of a fried sardine.

“You’re awfully good about it,” said Lady Johnstone, in thanks for unlimited porters to come.

Like many unusually stout people, she ate very little, and had plenty of time for talking.

“You knew my husband a long time ago, then!” she began, again looking across at Mrs. Bowring.

Sir Adam glanced at Mrs. Bowring sharply from beneath his shaggy brows.

“Oh yes,” she said calmly. “We met before he was married.”

The grey-headed man slowly nodded assent, but said nothing.

“Before his first marriage?” inquired Lady Johnstone gravely. “You know that he has been married twice.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “Before his first marriage.”

Again Sir Adam nodded solemnly.

“How interesting!” exclaimed Lady Johnstone. “Such old friends! And to meet in this accidental way, in this queer place!”

“We generally live abroad,” said Mrs. Bowring. “Generally in Florence. Do you know Florence?”

“Oh yes!” cried the fat lady enthusiastically. “I dote on Florence. I’m perfectly mad about pictures, you know. Perfectly mad!”

The vision of a woman cast in Lady Johnstone’s proportions and perfectly mad might have provoked a smile on Mrs. Bowring’s face at any other time.

“I suppose you buy pictures, as well as admire them,” she said, glad of the turn the conversation had taken.

“Sometimes,” answered the other. “Sometimes. I wish I could buy more. But good pictures are getting to be most frightfully dear. Besides, you are hardly ever sure of getting an original, unless there are all the documents—and that means thousands, literally thousands of pounds. But now and then I kick over the traces, you know.”

Clare could not help smiling at the simile, and bent down her head. Brook was watching her, he understood and was annoyed, for he loved his mother in his own way.

“At all events you won’t be able to ruin yourself in pictures here,” said Mrs. Bowring.

“No—but how about the porters?” suggested Sir Adam.

“My dear Adam,” said Lady Johnstone, “unless they are all Shylocks here, they won’t exact a ducat for every pound of flesh. If they did, you would certainly never get back to England.”

It was impossible not to laugh. Lady Johnstone did not look at all the sort of person to say witty things, though she was the very incarnation of good humour—except when she thought that Brook was in danger of being married. And every one laughed, Sir Adam first, then Brook, and then the Bowrings. The effect was good. Lady Johnstone was really afflicted with curiosity, and her first questions to Mrs. Bowring had been asked purely out of a wish to make advances. She was strongly attracted by the quiet, pale face, with its excessive refinement and delicately traced lines of suffering. She felt that the woman had taken life too hard, and it was her instinct to comfort her, and warm her and take care of her, from the first. Brook understood and rejoiced, for he knew his mother’s tenacity about her first impressions, and he wished to have her on his side.

After that the ice was broken and the conversation did not flag. Sir Adam looked at Mrs. Bowring from time to time with an expression of uncertainty which sat strangely on his determined features, and whenever any new subject was broached he watched her uneasily until she had spoken. But Mrs. Bowring rarely returned his glances, and her eyes never lingered on his face even when she was speaking to him. Clare, for her part, joined in the conversation, and wondered and waited. Her theory was strengthened by what she saw. Clearly Sir Adam felt uncomfortable in her mother’s presence; therefore he had injured her in some way, and doubted whether she had ever forgiven him. But to the girl’s quick instinct it was clear that he did not stand to Mrs. Bowring only in the position of one who had harmed her. In some way of love or friendship, he had once been very fond of her. The youngest woman cannot easily mistake the signs of such bygone intercourse.

When they rose, Mrs. Bowring walked slowly, on her side of the table, so as not to reach the door before Lady Johnstone, who could not move fast under any circumstances. They all went out together upon the terrace.

“Brook,” said the fat lady, “I must sit down, or I shall die. You know, my dear—get me one that won’t break!”

She laughed a little, as Brook went off to find a solid chair. A few minutes later she was enthroned in safety, her husband on one side of her and Mrs. Bowring on the other, all facing the sea.

“It’s too perfect for words!” she exclaimed, in solid and peaceful satisfaction. “Adam, isn’t it a dream? You thin people don’t know how nice it is to come to anchor in a pleasant place after a long voyage!”

She sighed happily and moved her arms so that their weight was quite at rest without an effort.

Clare and Johnstone walked slowly up and down, passing and repassing, and trying to talk as though neither were aware that there was something unusual in the situation, to say the least of it. At last they stopped at the end farthest away from the others.

“I had no idea that my father had known your mother long ago,” said Brook suddenly. “Had you?”

“Yes—of late,” answered Clare. “You see my mother wasn’t sure, until you told me his first name,” she hastened to add.

“Oh—I see. Of course. Stupid of me not to try and bring it into the conversation sooner, wasn’t it? But it seems to have been ever so long ago. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes. Ever so long ago.”

“When they were quite young, I suppose. Your mother must have been perfectly beautiful when she was young. I dare say my father was madly in love with her. It wouldn’t be at all surprising, you know, would it? He was a tremendous fellow for falling in love.”

“Oh! Was he?” Clare spoke rather coldly.

“You’re not angry, are you, because I suggested it?” asked Brook quickly. “I don’t see that there’s any harm in it. There’s no reason why a young man as he was shouldn’t have been desperately in love with a beautiful young girl, is there?”

“None whatever,” answered Clare. “I was only thinking—it’s rather an odd coincidence—do you mind telling me something?”

“Of course not! What is it?”

“Had your father ever a brother—who died? ”

“No. He had a lot of sisters—some of them are alive still. Awful old things, my aunts are, too. No, he never had any brother. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing—it’s a mere coincidence. Did I ever tell you that my mother was married twice? My father was her second husband. The first had your name.”

“Johnstone, with an E on the end of it?”

“Yes—with an E.”

“Gad! that’s funny!” exclaimed Brook. “Some connection, I dare say. Then we are connected too, you and I, not much though, when one thinks of it. Step-cousin by marriage, and ever so many degrees removed, too.”

“You can’t call that a connection,” said Clare with a little laugh, but her face was thoughtful. “Still, it is odd that she should have known your father well, and should have married a man of the same name—with the E—isn’t it?”

“He may have been an own cousin, for all I know,” said Brook. “I’ll ask. He’s sure to remember. He never forgets anything. And it’s another coincidence too, that my father should have been married twice, just like your mother, and that I should be the son of the second marriage, too. What odd things happen, when one comes to compare notes!”

While they had walked up and down, Lady Johnstone had paid no attention to them, but she had grown restless as soon as she had seen that they stood still at a distance to talk, and her bright blue eyes turned towards them again and again, with sudden motherly anxiety. At last she could bear it no longer.

“Brook!” she cried. “Brook, my dear boy!” Brook and Clare walked back towards the little group.

“Brook, dear,” said Lady Johnstone. “Please come and tell me the names of all the mountains and places we see from here. You know, I always want to know everything as soon as I arrive.”

Sir Adam rose from his chair.

“Should you like to take a turn?” he asked, speaking to Mrs. Bowring and standing before her.

She rose in silence and stepped forward, with a quiet, set face, as though she knew that the supreme moment had come.

“Take our chairs,” said Sir Adam to Clare and Brook. “We are going to walk about a little.”

Mrs. Bowring turned in the direction whence the young people had come, towards the end of the terrace. Sir Adam walked erect beside her.

“Is there a way out at that end?” he asked in a low voice, when they had gone a little distance.

“No.”

“We can’t stand there and talk. Where can we go? Isn’t there a quiet place somewhere?”

“Do you want to talk to me?” asked Mrs. Bowring, looking straight before her.

“Yes, please,” answered Sir Adam, almost sharply, but still in a low tone. “I’ve waited a long time,” he added.

Mrs. Bowring said nothing in answer. They reached the end of the walk, and she turned without pausing.

“The point out there is called the Conca,” she said, pointing to the rocks far out below. “It curls round like a shell, you know. Conca means a sea-shell, I think. It seems to be a great place for fishing, for there are always little boats about it in fine weather.”

“I remember,” replied Sir Adam. “I was here thirty years ago. It hasn’t changed much. Are there still those little paper-mills in the valley on the way to Ravello? They used to be very primitive.”

They kept up their forced conversation as they passed Lady Johnstone and the young people. Then they were silent again, as they went towards the hotel.

“We’ll go through the house,” said Mrs. Bowring, speaking low again. “There’s a quiet place on the other side—Clare and your son will have to stay with your wife.”

“Yes, I thought of that, when I told them to take our chairs.”

In silence they traversed the long tiled corridor with set faces, like two people who are going to do something dangerous and disagreeable together. They came out upon the platform before the deep recess of the rocks in which stood the black cross. There was nobody there.

“We shall not be disturbed out here,” said Mrs. Bowring, quietly. “The people in the hotel go to their rooms after luncheon. We will sit down there by the cross, if you don’t mind—I’m not so strong as I used to be, you know.”

They ascended the few steps which led up to the bench where Clare had sat on that evening which she could not forget, and they sat down side by side, not looking at each other’s faces.

A long silence followed. Once or twice Sir Adam shifted his feet uneasily, and opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, but suddenly changed his mind. Mrs. Bowring was the first to speak.

“Please understand,” she said slowly, glancing at him sideways, “I don’t want you to say anything, and I don’t know what you can have to say. As for my being here, it’s very simple. If I had known that Brook Johnstone was your son before he had made our acquaintance, and that you were coming here, I should have gone away at once. As soon as I knew him I suspected who he was. You must know that he is like you as you used to be—except your eyes. Then I said to myself that he would tell you that he had met us, and that you would of course think that I had been afraid to meet you. I’m not. So I stayed. I don’t know whether I did right or wrong. To me it seemed right, and I’m willing to abide the consequences, if there are to be any.”

“What consequences can there be?” asked the grey-bearded man, turning his eyes slowly to her face.

“That depends upon how you act. It might have been better to behave as though we had never met, and to let your son introduce you to me as he introduced you to Clare. We might have started upon a more formal footing, then. You have chosen to say that we are old friends. It’s an odd expression to use—but let it stand. I won’t quarrel with it. It does well enough. As for the position, it’s not pleasant for me, but it must be worse for you. There’s not much to choose. But I don’t want you to think that I expect you to talk about old times unless you like. If you have anything which you wish to say, I’ll hear it all without interrupting you. But I do wish you to believe that I won’t do anything nor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy with you. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what she was doing when she married you. God knows, there was publicity enough. Was it my fault? I suppose you’ve always thought so. Very well, then—say that it was my fault. But don’t tell your wife who I am unless she forces you to it out of curiosity.”

“Do you think I should wish to?” asked Sir Adam, bitterly.

“No—of course not. But she may ask you who I was and when we met, and all about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don’t want to tell lies, you know.”

“I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That’s true enough. You were christened Lucy Waring. She need never know what your last name was. That isn’t a lie, is it?”

“Not exactly—under the circumstances.”

“And your daughter knows nothing, of course? I want to know how we stand, you see.”

“No—only that we have met before. I don’t know what she may suspect. And your son?”

“Oh, I suppose he knows. Somebody must have told him. ”

“He doesn’t know who I am, though,” said Mrs. Bowring, with conviction. “He seems to be more like his mother than like you. He couldn’t conceal anything long.”

“I wasn’t particularly good at that either, as it turned out,” said Sir Adam, gravely.

“No, thank God!”

“Do you think it’s something to be thankful for? I don’t. Things might have gone better afterwards—”

“Afterwards!” The suffering of the woman’s life was in the tone and in her eyes.

“Yes, afterwards. I’m an old man, Lucy, and I’ve seen a great many things since you and I parted, and a great many people. I was bad enough, but I’ve seen worse men since, who have had another chance and have turned out well.”

“Their wives did not love them. I am almost old, too. I loved you, Adam. It was a bad hurt you gave me, and the wound never healed. I married—I had to marry. He was an honest gentleman. Then he was killed. That hurt too, for I was very fond of him—but it did not hurt as the other did. Nothing could.”

Her voice shook, and she turned away her face. At least, he should not see that her lip trembled.

“I didn’t think you cared,” said Sir Adam, and his own voice was not very steady.

She turned upon him almost fiercely, and there was a blue light in her faded eyes.

“I! You thought I didn’t care? You’ve no right to say that—it’s wicked of you, and it’s cruel. Did you think I married you for your money, Adam? And if I had—should I have given it up to be divorced because you gave jewels to an actress? I loved you, and I wanted your love, or nothing. You couldn’t be faithful—commonly, decently faithful, for one year—and I got myself free from you, because I would not be your wife, nor eat your bread, nor touch your hand, if you couldn’t love me. Don’t say that you ever loved me, except my face. We hadn’t been divorced a year when you married again. Don’t say that you loved me! You loved your wife—your second wife—perhaps. I hope so. I hope you love her now—and I dare say you do, for she looks happy—but don’t say that you ever loved me—just long enough to marry me and betray me!”

“You’re hard, Lucy. You’re as hard as ever you were twenty years ago,” said Adam Johnstone.

As he leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, he passed his brown hand across his eyes, and then stared vaguely at the white walls of the old hotel beyond the platform.

“But you know that I’m right,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “Perhaps I’m hard, too. I’m sorry. You said that you had been mad, I remember—I don’t like to think of all you said, but you said that. And I remember thinking that I had been much more mad than you, to have married you, but that I should soon be really mad—raving mad—if I remained your wife. I couldn’t. I should have died. Afterwards I thought it would have been better if I had died then. But I lived through it. Then, after the death of my old aunt, I was alone. What was I to do? I was poor and lonely, and a divorced woman, though the right had been on my side. Richard Bowring knew all about it, and I married him. I did not love you any more, then, but I told him the truth when I told him that I could never love any one again. He was satisfied—so we were married.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Sir Adam.

“Blame me! No—it would hardly be for you to blame me, if I could make anything of the shreds of my life which I had saved from yours. For that matter—you were free too. It was soon done, but why should I blame you for that? You were free—by the law—to go where you pleased, to love again, and to marry at once. You did. Oh no! I don’t blame you for that!”

Both were silent for some time. But Mrs. Bowring’s eyes still had an indignant light in them, and her fingers twitched nervously from time to time. Sir Adam stared stolidly at the white wall, without looking at his former wife.

“I’ve been talking about myself,” she said at last. “I didn’t mean to, for I need no justification. When you said that you wanted to say something, I brought you here so that we could be alone. What was it? I should have let you speak first.”

“It was this.” He paused, as though choosing his words. “Well, I don’t know,” he continued presently. “You’ve been saying a good many things about me that I would have said myself. I’ve not denied them, have I? Well, it’s this. I wanted to see you for years, and now we’ve met. We may not meet again, Lucy, though I dare say we may live a long time. I wish we could, though. But of course you don’t care to see me. I was your husband once, and I behaved like a brute to you. You wouldn’t want me for a friend now that I am old.”

He waited, but she said nothing.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he continued. “I shouldn’t, in your place. Oh, I know! If I were dying or starving, or very unhappy, you would be capable of doing anything for me, out of sheer goodness. You’re only just to people who aren ’t suffering. You were always like that in the old days. It’s so much the worse for us. I have nothing about me to excite your pity. I’m strong, I’m well, I’m very rich, I’m relatively happy. I don’t know how much I cared for my wife when I married her, but she has been a good wife, and I’m very fond of her now, in my own way. It wasn’t a good action, I admit, to marry her at all. She was the beauty of her year and the best match of the season, and I was just divorced, and every one’s hand was against me. I thought I would show them what I could do, winged as I was, and I got her. No; it wasn’t a thing to be proud of. But somehow we hit it off, and she stuck to me, and I grew fond of her because she did, and here we are as you see us, and Brook is a fine fellow, and likes me. I like him too. He’s honest and faithful, like his mother. There’s no justice and no logic in this world, Lucy. I was a good-for-nothing in the old days. Circumstances have made me decently good, and a pretty happy man besides, as men go. I couldn’t ask for any pity if I tried.”

“No; you’re not to be pitied. I’m glad you’re happy. I don’t wish you any harm.”

“You might, and I shouldn’t blame you. But all that isn’t what I wished to say. I’m getting old, and we may not meet any more after this. If you wish me to go away, I’ll go. We’ll leave the place tomorrow.”

“No. Why should you? It’s a strange situation, as we were to-day at table. You with your wife beside, and your divorced wife opposite you, and only you and I knowing it. I suppose you think, somehow—I don’t know—that I might be jealous of your wife. But twenty-seven years make a difference, Adam. It’s half a lifetime. It’s so utterly past that I sha’n’t realise it. If you like to stay, then stay. No harm can come of it, and that was so very long ago. Is that what you want to say?”

“No.” He hesitated. “I want you to say that you forgive me,” he said, in a quick, hoarse voice.

His keen dark eyes turned quickly to her face, and he saw how very pale she was, and how the shadows had deepened under her eyes, and her fingers twitched nervously as they clasped one another in her lap.

“I suppose you think I’m sentimental,” he said, looking at her. “Perhaps I am; but it would mean a good deal to me if you would just say it.”

There was something pathetic in the appeal, and something young too, in spite of his grey beard and furrowed face. Still Mrs. Bowring said nothing. It meant almost too much to her, even after twenty-seven years. This old man had taken her, an innocent young girl, had married her, had betrayed her while she dearly loved him, and had blasted her life at the beginning. Even now it was hard to forgive. The suffering was not old, and the sight of his face had touched the quick again. Barely ten minutes had passed since the pain had almost wrung the tears from her.

“You can’t,” said the old man, suddenly. “I see it. It’s too much to ask, I suppose, and I’ve never done anything to deserve it.”

The pale face grew paler, but the hands were still, and grasped each other, firm and cold. The lips moved, but no sound came. Then a moment, and they moved again.

“You’re mistaken, Adam. I do forgive you.”

He caught the two hands in his, and his face shivered.

“God bless you, dear,” he tried to say, and he kissed the hands twice.

When Mrs. Bowring looked up he was sitting beside her, just as before; but his face was terribly drawn, and strange, and a great tear had trickled down the furrowed brown cheek into the grey beard.