The young girl stood still on her balcony, happily dazed for a few moments by the strong sunshine and the clear air. It is probably the sensation enjoyed for hours together by a dog basking in the sun, but with most human beings it does not last long — the sun is soon too hot for the head, or too bright for the eyes, or there is a draught, or the flies disturb one. Man is not capable of as much physical enjoyment as the other animals, though perhaps his enjoyment is keener during the first moments. Then comes thought, restlessness, discontent, change, effort, and progress, and the history of man’s superiority is the journal of his pain.
For a little while, Clare stood blinking in the sunshine, smitten into a pleasant semi-consciousness by the strong nature around her. Then she thought of Brook and the lady in white, and of all she had been a witness of in the evening, and the colour of things changed a little, and she turned away and went between the little white and red curtains into her room again. Life was certainly not the same since she had heard and seen what a man and a woman could say and be. There were certain new impressions, where there had been no impression at all, but only a maiden readiness to receive the beautiful. What had come was not beautiful, by any means, and the thought of it darkened the air a little, so that the day was not to be what it might have been. She realised how she was affected, and grew impatient with herself. After all, it would be the easiest thing in the world to avoid the man, even if he stayed some time. Her mother was not much given to making acquaintance with strangers.
And it would have been easy enough, if the man himself had taken the same view. He, however, had watched the Bowrings on the preceding evening, and had made up his mind that they were “human beings,” as he put it; that is to say, that they belonged to his own class, whereas none of the people at the upper end of the table had any claim to be counted with the social blessed. He was young, and though he knew how to amuse himself alone, and had all manner of manly tastes and inclinations, he preferred pleasant society to solitude, and his experience told him that the society of the Bowrings would in all probability be pleasant. He therefore determined that he would try to know them at once, and the determination had already been formed in his mind when he had run after Clare to give her the shawl she had dropped.
He got up rather late, and promptly marched out upon the terrace under the vines, smoking a briar-root pipe with that solemn air whereby the Englishman abroad proclaims to the world that he owns the scenery. There is something almost phenomenal about an Englishman’s solid self-satisfaction when he is alone with his pipe. Every nation has its own way of smoking. There is a hasty and vicious manner about the Frenchman’s little cigarette of pungent black tobacco; the Italian dreams over his rat-tail cigar; the American either eats half of his Havana while he smokes the other, or else he takes a frivolous delight in smoking delicately and keeping the white ash whole to the end; the German surrounds himself with a cloud, and, god-like, meditates within it; there is a sacrificial air about the Asiatic’s narghileh, as the thin spire rises steadily and spreads above his head; but the Englishman’s short briar-root pipe has a powerful individuality of its own. Its simplicity is Gothic, its solidity is of the Stone Age, he smokes it in the face of the higher civilisation, and it is the badge of the conqueror. A man who asserts that he has a right to smoke a pipe anywhere, practically asserts that he has a right to everything. And it will be admitted that Englishmen get a good deal.
Moreover, as soon as the Englishman has finished smoking he generally goes and does something else. Brook knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and immediately went in search of the head waiter, to whom he explained with some difficulty that he wished to be placed next to the two ladies who sat last on the side away from the staircase at the public table. The waiter tried to explain that the two ladies, though they had been some time in the hotel, insisted upon being always last on that side because there was more air. But Brook was firm, and he strengthened his argument with coin, and got what he wanted. He also made the waiter point out to him the Bowrings’ name on the board which held the names of the guests. Then he asked the way to Ravello, turned up his trousers round his ankles, and marched off at a swinging pace down the steep descent towards the beach, which he had to cross before climbing the hill to the old town. Nothing in his outward manner or appearance betrayed that he had been through a rather serious crisis on the preceding evening.
That was what struck Clare Bowring when, to her dismay, he sat down beside her at the midday meal. She could not help glancing at him as he took his seat. His eyes were bright, his face, browned by the sun, was fresh and rested. There was not a line of care or thought on his forehead. The young girl felt that she was flushing with anger. He saw her colour, and took it for a sign of shyness. He made a sort of apologetic movement of the head and shoulders towards her which was not exactly a bow — for to an Englishman’s mind a bow is almost a familiarity — but which expressed a kind of vague desire not to cause any inconvenience.
The colour deepened a little in Clare’s face, and then disappeared. She found something to say to her mother, on her other side, which it would hardly have been worth while to say at all under ordinary circumstances. Mrs. Bowring had glanced at the man while he was taking his seat, and her eyebrows had contracted a little. Later she looked furtively past her daughter at his profile, and then stared a long time at her plate. As for him, he began to eat with conscious strength, as healthy young men do, but he watched his opportunity for doing or saying anything which might lead to a first acquaintance.
To tell the truth, however, he was in no hurry. He knew how to make himself comfortable, and it was an important element in his comfort to be seated next to the only persons in the place with whom he should care to associate. That point being gained, he was willing to wait for whatever was to come afterwards. He did not expect in any case to gain more than the chance of a little pleasant conversation, and he was not troubled by any youthful desire to shine in the eyes of the fair girl beside whom he found himself, beyond the natural wish to appear well before women in general, which modifies the conduct of all natural and manly young men when women are present at all.
As the meal proceeded, however, he was surprised to find that no opportunity presented itself for exchanging a word with his neighbour. He had so often found it impossible to avoid speaking with strangers at a public table that he had taken the probability of some little incident for granted, and caught himself glancing surreptitiously at Clare’s plate to see whether there were nothing wanting which he might offer her. But he could not think of anything. The fried sardines were succeeded by the regulation braised beef with the gluey brown sauce which grows in most foreign hotels. That, in its turn, was followed by some curiously dry slices of spongecake, each bearing a bit of pink and white sugar frosting, and accompanied by fresh orange marmalade, which Brook thought very good, but which Clare refused. And then there was fruit — beautiful oranges, uncanny apples, and walnuts — and the young man foresaw the near end of the meal, and wished that something would happen. But still nothing happened at all.
He watched Clare’s hands as she prepared an orange in the Italian fashion, taking off the peel at one end, then passing the knife twice completely round at right angles, and finally stripping the peel away in four neat pieces. The hands were beautiful in their way, too thin, perhaps, and almost too white from recent illness, but straight and elastic, with little blue veins at the sides of the finger-joints and exquisite nails that were naturally polished. The girl was clever with her fingers, she could not help seeing that her neighbour was watching her, and she peeled the orange with unusual skill and care. It was a good one, too, and the peel separated easily from the deep yellow fruit.
“How awfully jolly!” exclaimed the young man, unconsciously, in genuine admiration.
He was startled by the sound of his own voice, for he had not meant to speak, and the blood rushed to his sunburnt face. Clare’s eyes flashed upon him in a glance of surprise, and the colour ros
e in her cheeks also. She was evidently not pleased, and he felt that he had been guilty of a breach of English propriety. When an Englishman does a tactless thing he generally hastens to make it worse, becomes suddenly shy, and flounders.
“I — I beg your pardon,” stammered Brook. “I really didn’t mean to speak — that is — you did it so awfully well, you know!”
“It’s the Italian way,” Clare answered, beginning to quarter the orange.
She felt that she could not exactly be silent after he had apologised for admiring her skill. But she remembered that she had felt some vanity in what she had been doing, and had done it with some unnecessary ostentation. She hoped that he would not say anything more, for the sound of his voice reminded her of what she had heard him say to the lady in white, and she hated him with all her heart.
But the young man was encouraged by her sufficiently gracious answer, and was already glad of what he had done.
“Do all Italians do it that way?” he asked boldly.
“Generally,” answered the young girl, and she began to eat the orange.
Brook took another from the dish before him.
“Let me see,” he said, turning it round and round. “You cut a slice off one end.” He began to cut the peel.
“Not too deep,” said Clare, “or you will cut into the fruit.”
“Oh — thanks, awfully. Yes, I see. This way?”
He took the end off, and looked at her for approval. She nodded gravely, and then turned away her eyes. He made the two cuts round the peel, crosswise, and looked to her again, but she affected not to see him.
“Oh — might I ask you—” he began. She looked at his orange again, without a smile. “Please don’t think me too dreadfully rude,” he said. “But it was so pretty, and I’m tremendously anxious to learn. Was it this way?”
His fingers teased the peel, and it began to come off. He raised his eyes with another look of inquiry.
“Yes. That’s all right,” said Clare calmly.
She was going to look away again, when she reflected that since he was so pertinacious it would be better to see the operation finished once for all. Then she and her mother would get up and go away, as they had finished. But he wished to push his advantage.
“And now what does one do?” he asked, for the sake of saying something.
“One eats it,” answered Clare, half impatiently.
He stared at her a moment and then broke into a laugh, and Clare, very much to her own surprise and annoyance, laughed too, in spite of herself. That broke the ice. When two people have laughed together over something one of them has said, there is no denying the acquaintance.
“It was really awfully kind of you!” he exclaimed, his eyes still laughing. “It was horridly rude of me to say anything at all, but I really couldn’t help it. If I could get anybody to introduce me, so that I could apologise properly, I would, you know, but in this place—”
He looked towards the German family and the English old maids, in a helpless sort of way, and then laughed again.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” said Clare rather coldly.
“No — I suppose not,” he answered, growing graver at once. “And I think it is allowed — isn’t it? — to speak to one’s neighbour at a table d’hôte, you know. Not but what it was awfully rude of me, all the same,” he added hastily.
“Oh no. Not at all.”
Clare stared at the wall opposite and leaned back in her chair.
“Oh! thanks awfully! I was afraid you might think so, you know.”
Mrs. Bowring leaned forward as her daughter leaned back. Seeing that the latter had fallen into conversation with the stranger, she was too much a woman of the world not to speak to him at once in order to avoid any awkwardness when they next met, for he could not possibly have spoken first to her across the young girl.
“Is it your first visit to Amalfi?” she inquired, with as much originality as is common in such cases.
Brook leaned forward too, and looked over at the elder woman.
“Yes,” he answered, “I was with a party, and they dropped me here last night. I was to meet my people here, but they haven’t turned up yet, so I’m seeing the sights. I went up to Ravello this morning — you know, that place on the hill. There’s an awfully good view from there, isn’t there?”
Clare thought his fluency developed very quickly when he spoke to her mother. As he leaned forward she could not help seeing his face, and she looked at him closely, for the first time, and with some curiosity. He was handsome, and had a wonderfully frank and good-humoured expression. He was not in the least a “beauty” man — she thought he might be a soldier or a sailor, and a very good specimen of either. Furthermore, he was undoubtedly a gentleman, so far as a man is to be judged by his outward manner and appearance. In her heart she had already set him down as little short of a villain. The discrepancy between his looks and what she thought of him disturbed her. It was unpleasant to feel that a man who had acted as he had acted last night could look as fresh, and innocent, and unconcerned as he looked to-day. It was disagreeable to have him at her elbow. Either he had never cared a straw for poor Lady Fan, and in that case he had almost broken her heart out of sheer mischief and love of selfish amusement, or else, if he had cared for her at all, he was a pitiably fickle and faithless creature — something much more despicable in the eyes of most women than the most heartless cynic. One or the other he must be, thought Clare. In either case he was bad, because Lady Fan was married, and it was wicked to make love to married women. There was a directness about Clare’s view which would either have made the man laugh or would have hurt him rather badly. She wondered what sort of expression would come over his handsome face if she were suddenly to tell him what she knew. The idea took her by surprise, and she smiled to herself as she thought of it.
Yet she could not help glancing at him again and again, as he talked across her with her mother, making very commonplace remarks about the beauty of the place. Very much in spite of herself, she wished to know him better, though she already hated him. His face attracted her strangely, and his voice was pleasant, close to her ear. He had not in the least the look of the traditional lady-killer, of whom the tradition seems to survive as a moral scarecrow for the education of the young, though the creature is extinct among Anglo-Saxons. He was, on the contrary, a manly man, who looked as though he would prefer tennis to tea and polo to poetry — and men to women for company, as a rule. She felt that if she had not heard him talking with the lady in white she should have liked him very much. As it was, she said to herself that she wished she might never see him again — and all the time her eyes returned again and again to his sunburnt face and profile, till in a few minutes she knew his features by heart.
CHAPTER IV
A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE may, under favourable circumstances, develop faster than one brought about by formal introduction, because neither party has been previously led to expect anything of the other. There is no surer way of making friendship impossible than telling two people that they are sure to be such good friends, and are just suited to each other. The law of natural selection applies to almost everything we want in the world, from food and climate to a wife.
When Clare and her mother had established themselves as usual on the terrace under the vines that afternoon, Brook came and sat beside them for a while. Mrs. Bowring liked him and talked easily with him, but Clare was silent and seemed absent-minded. The young man looked at her from time to time with curiosity, for he was not used to being treated with such perfect indifference as she showed to him. He was not spoilt, as the phrase goes, but he had always been accustomed to a certain amount of attention, when he met new people, and, without being in the least annoyed, he thought it strange that this particular young lady should seem not even to listen to what he said.
Mrs. Bowring, on the other hand, scarcely took her eyes from his face after the first ten minutes, and not a word he spoke escaped her. By contrast w
ith her daughter’s behaviour, her earnest attention was very noticeable. By degrees she began to ask him questions about himself.
“Do you expect your people to-morrow?” she inquired.
Clare looked up quickly. It was very unlike her mother to show even that small amount of curiosity about a stranger. It was clear that Mrs. Bowring had conceived a sudden liking for the young man.
“They were to have been here to-day,” he answered indifferently. “They may come this evening, I suppose, but they have not even ordered rooms. I asked the man there — the owner of the place, I suppose he is.”
“Then of course you will wait for them,” suggested Mrs. Bowring.
“Yes. It’s an awful bore, too. That is—” he corrected himself hastily— “I mean, if I were to be here without a soul to speak to, you know. Of course, it’s different, this way.”
“How?” asked Mrs. Bowring, with a brighter smile than Clare had seen on her face for a long time.
“Oh, because you are so kind as to let me talk to you,” answered the young man, without the least embarrassment.
“Then you are a social person?” Mrs. Bowring laughed a little. “You don’t like to be alone?”
“Oh no! Not when I can be with nice people. Of course not. I don’t believe anybody does. Unless I’m doing something, you know — shooting, or going up a hill, or fishing. Then I don’t mind. But of course I would much rather be alone than with bores, don’t you know? Or — or — well, the other kind of people.”
“What kind?” asked Mrs. Bowring.
“There are only two kinds,” answered Brook, gravely. “There is our kind — and then there is the other kind. I don’t know what to call them, do you? All the people who never seem to understand exactly what we are talking about nor why we do things — and all that. I call them ‘the other kind.’ But then I haven’t a great command of language. What should you call them?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 804