Adam Johnstones Son | Page 4

says that such a hand could not do
anything ignoble, could not take meanly, nor strike cowardly, nor press
falsely; a quality of skin neither rough and coarse, nor over smooth like
satin, but cool and pleasant to the touch as fine silk that is closely
woven. The fingers of such hands are very straight and very elastic, but
not supple like young snakes, as some fingers are, and the cushion of
the hand is not over full nor heavy, nor yet shrunken and undeveloped
as in the wasted hands of old Asiatic races.
In outward appearance there was that sort of inherited likeness between
mother and daughter which is apt to strike strangers more than persons
of the same family. Mrs. Bowring had been beautiful in her youth--far
more beautiful than Clare--but her face had been weaker, in spite of the
regularity of the features and their faultless proportion. Life had given
them an acquired strength, but not of the lovely kind, and the
complexion was faded, and the hair had darkened, and the eyes had
paled. Some faces are beautified by suffering. Mrs. Bowring's face was
not of that class. It was as though a thin, hard mask had been formed
and closely moulded upon it, as the action of the sea overlays some
sorts of soft rock with a surface thin as paper but as hard as granite. In
spite of the hardness, the features were not really strong. There was
refinement in them, however, of the same kind which the daughter had,
and as much, though less pleasing. A fern--a spray of
maiden's-hair--loses much of its beauty but none of its refinement when
petrified in limestone or made fossil in coal.
As they sat there, side by side, mother and daughter, where they had sat
every day for a week or more, they had very little to say. They had
exhausted the recapitulation of Clare's illness, during the first days of
her convalescence. It was not the first time that they had been in Amalfi,
and they had enumerated its beauties to each other, and renewed their
acquaintance with it from a distance, looking down from the terrace
upon the low-lying town, and the beach and the painted boats, and the
little crowd that swarmed out now and then like ants, very busy and

very much in a hurry, running hither and thither, disappearing presently
as by magic, and leaving the shore to the sun and the sea. The two had
spoken of a little excursion to Ravello, and they meant to go thither as
soon as they should be strong enough; but that was not yet. And
meanwhile they lived through the quiet days, morning, meal times,
evening, bed time, and round again, through the little hotel's
programme of possibility; eating what was offered them, but feasting
royally on air and sunshine and spring sweetness; moistening their lips
in strange southern wines, but drinking deep draughts of the rich
southern air-life; watching the people of all sorts and of many
conditions, who came and stayed a day and went away again, but social
only in each other's lives, and even that by sympathy rather than in
speech. A corner of life's show was before them, and they kept their
places on the vine-sheltered terrace and looked on. But it seemed as
though nothing could ever possibly happen there to affect the direction
of their own quietly moving existence.
Seeing that her daughter did not say anything in answer to the remark
about the past being written in a foreign language, Mrs. Bowring
looked at the distant sky-haze thoughtfully for a few moments, then
opened her book again where her thin forefinger had kept the place, and
began to read. There was no disappointment in her face at not being
understood, for she had spoken almost to herself and had expected no
reply. No change of expression softened or accentuated the quiet
hardness which overspread her naturally gentle face. But the thought
was evidently still present in her mind, for her attention did not fix
itself upon her book, and presently she looked at her daughter, as the
latter bent her head over the little bag she was making.
The young girl felt her mother's eyes upon her, looked up herself, and
smiled faintly, almost mechanically, as before. It was a sort of habit
they both had--a way of acknowledging one another's presence in the
world. But this time it seemed to Clare that there was a question in the
look, and after she had smiled she spoke.
"No," she said, "I don't understand how anybody can forget the past. It
seems to me that I shall always remember why I did things, said things,

and thought things. I should, if I lived a hundred years, I'm quite