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?”
“No,” said Miss Marley; “after what you’ve said to me to-night I am not inclined to blame him.”
“Well,” said Claire, “I don’t think, if we were to meet again, he would let me go. We may manage this time, but not twice.”
“Are you sure,” asked Miss Marley, gently, “that you will manage this time?”
Claire raised her head and looked at Miss Marley.
“Aren’t you?” she said gravely. “I did feel very sure.”
“I’d feel a great deal surer,” said Miss Marley, “if you didn’t drive down the pass. If you once set off with Winn, do you suppose he’ll stop? I am sure he means to now; in fact, his sending you up here to talk to me proves it. He knows I sha’n’t be much of a help to him in carrying you off. But, my dear, I never knew any Staines stop, once he’d started. As long as he is looking at the consequences for you, he’ll steer clear of them, he’s looking at them now, but a moment will come when he’ll cease to look, and then everything will depend on you. I think your one chance is to say good-by here, and to drive down the pass with Maurice. He can dispose of his party for once.”