By this time he was growing used to her sudden changes of manner and to the occasional scornful speeches she made. He could not understand them in the least, as may be imagined, and having considerable experience he set them down to the score of a certain girlish shyness, which showed itself in no other way. He had known women whose shyness manifested itself in saying disagreeable things for which they were sometimes sorry afterwards.
“No,” he added reflectively. “I don’t think I’m a very fickle person.”
Clare turned upon him the terrible innocence of her clear blue eyes. She thought she knew the truth about him too, and that he could not look her in the face. But she was mistaken. He met her glance fearlessly and quietly, with a frank smile and a little wonder at its fixed scrutiny. She would not look away, rude though she might seem, nor be stared out of countenance by a man whom she believed to be false and untrue. But his eyes were very bright, and in a few seconds they began to dazzle her, and she felt her eyelids trembling violently. It was a new sensation, and a very unpleasant one. It seemed to her that the man had suddenly got some power over her. She made a strong effort and turned away her face, and again she blushed with annoyance.
“I beg your pardon,” Johnstone said quickly, in a very low voice. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.”
Clare said nothing as she sat beside him, but she looked at the opposite wall, and her hand made an impatient little gesture as the fingers lay on the edge of the table. Possibly, if her mother had not been on her other side, she might have answered him. As it was, she felt that she could not speak just then. She was very much disturbed, as though something new and totally unknown had got hold of her. It was not only that she hated the man for his heartlessness, while she felt that he had some sort of influence over her, which was more than mere attraction. There was something beyond, deep down in her heart, which was nameless, and painful, but which she somehow felt that she wanted. And aside from it all, she was angry with him for having stared her out of countenance, forgetting that when she had turned upon him she had meant to do the same by him, feeling quite sure that he could not look her in the face.
They spoke little during the remainder of the meal, for Clare was quite willing to show that she was angry, though she had little right to be. After all, she had looked at him, and he had looked at her. After dinner she disappeared, and was not seen during the remainder of the evening.
When she was alone, however, she went over the whole matter thoughtfully, and she made up her mind that she had been hasty. For she was naturally just. She said to herself that she had no claim to the man’s secrets, which she had learned in a way of which she was not at all proud; and that if he could keep his own counsel, he, on his side, had a right to do so. The fact that she knew him to be heartless and faithless by no means implied that he was also indiscreet, though when an individual has done anything which we think bad we easily suppose that he may do every other bad thing imaginable. Johnstone’s discretion, at least, was admirable, now that she thought of it. His bright eyes and frank look would have disarmed any suspicion short of the certainty she possessed. There had not been the least contraction of the lids, the smallest change in the expression of his mouth, not the faintest increase of colour in his young face.
So much the worse, thought the young girl suddenly. He was not only bad. He was also an accomplished actor. No doubt his eyes had been as steady and bright and his whole face as truthful when he had made love to Lady Fan at sunset on the Acropolis. Somehow, the allusion to that scene had produced a vivid impression on Clare’s mind, and she often found herself wondering what he had said, and how he had looked just then.
Her resentment against him increased as she thought it all over, and again she felt a longing to be cruel to him, and to make him suffer just what he had made Lady Fan endure.
Then she was suddenly and unexpectedly overcome by a shamed sense of her inability to accomplish any such act of justice. It was as though she had already tried, and had failed, and he had laughed in her face and turned away. It seemed to her that there could be nothing in her which could appeal to such a man. There was Lady Fan, much older, with plenty of experience, doubtless; and she had been deceived, and betrayed, and abandoned, before the young girl’s very eyes. What chance could such a mere girl possibly have? It was folly, and moreover it was wicked of her to think of such things. She would be willingly lowering herself to his level, trying to do the very thing which she despised and hated in him, trying to outwit him, to out-deceive him, to out-betray him. One side of her nature, at least, revolted against any such scheme. Besides, she could never do it.
She was not a great beauty; she was not extraordinarily clever — not clever at all, she said to herself in her sudden fit of humility; she had no “experience.” That last word means a good deal more to most young girls than they can find in it after life’s illogical surprises have taught them the terrible power of chance and mood and impulse.
She glanced at her face in the mirror, and looked away. Then she glanced again. The third time she turned to the glass she began to examine her features in detail. Lady Fan was a fair woman, too. But, without vanity, she had to admit that she was much better-looking than Lady Fan. She was also much younger and fresher, which should be an advantage, she thought. She wished that her hair were golden instead of flaxen; that her eyes were dark instead of blue; that her cheeks were not so thin, and her throat a shade less slender. Nevertheless, she would have been willing to stand any comparison with the little lady in white. Of course, compared with the famous beauties, some of whom she had seen, she was scarcely worth a glance. Doubtless, Brook Johnstone knew them all.
Then she gazed into her own eyes. She did not know that a woman, alone, may look into her own eyes and blush and turn away. She looked long and steadily, and quite quietly. After all, they looked dark, for the pupils were very large and the blue iris was of that deep colour which borders upon violet. There was something a little unusual in them, too, though she could not quite make out what it was. Why did not all women look straight before them as she did? There must be some mysterious reason. It was a pity that her eyelashes were almost white. Yet they, too, added something to the peculiarity of that strange gaze.
“They are like periwinkles in a snowstorm!” exclaimed Clare, tired of her own face; and she turned from the mirror and went to bed.
CHAPTER VI
THE FIRST SIGN that two people no longer stand to each other in the relation of mere acquaintances is generally that the tones of their voices change, while they feel a slight and unaccountable constraint when they happen to be left alone together.
Two days passed after the little incident which had occurred at dinner before Clare and Johnstone were momentarily face to face out of Mrs. Bowring’s sight. At first Clare had not been aware that her mother was taking pains to be always present when the young man was about, but when she noticed the fact she at once began to resent it. Such constant watchfulness was unlike her mother, un-English, and almost unnatural. When they were all seated together on the terrace, if Mrs. Bowring wished to go indoors to write a letter or to get something she invented some excuse for making her daughter go with her, and stay with her till she came out again. A French or Italian mother could not have been more particular or careful, but a French or Italian girl would have been accustomed to such treatment, and would not have seen anything unusual in it. But Mrs. Bowring had never acted in such a way before now, and it irritated the young girl extremely. She felt that she was being treated like a child, and that Johnstone must see it and think it ridiculous. At last Clare made an attempt at resistance, out of sheer contrariety.
“I don’t want to write letters!” she answered impatiently. “I wrote two yesterday. It is hot indoors, and I would much rather stay here!”
Mrs. Bowring went as far as the parapet, and looked down at the sea for a moment. Then she came back and sat down again.
“It’s quite true,” she said. “It is hot indoor
s. I don’t think I shall write, after all.”
Brook Johnstone could not help smiling a little, though he turned away his face to hide his amusement. It was so perfectly evident that Mrs. Bowring was determined not to leave Clare alone with him that he must have been blind not to see it. Clare saw the smile, and was angry. She was nineteen years old, she had been out in the world, the terrace was a public place, Johnstone was a gentleman, and the whole thing was absurd. She took up her work and closed her lips tightly.
Johnstone felt the awkwardness, rose suddenly, and said he would go for a walk. Clare raised her eyes and nodded as he lifted his hat. He was still smiling, and her resentment deepened. A moment later, mother and daughter were alone. Clare did not lay down her work, nor look up when she spoke.
“Really, mother, it’s too absurd!” she exclaimed, and a little colour came to her cheeks.
“What is absurd, my dear?” asked Mrs. Bowring, affecting not to understand.
“Your abject fear of leaving me for five minutes with Mr. Johnstone. I’m not a baby. He was laughing. I was positively ashamed! What do you suppose could have happened, if you had gone in and written your letters and left us quietly here? And it happens every day, you know! If you want a glass of water, I have to go in with you.”
“My dear! What an exaggeration!”
“It’s not an exaggeration, mother — really. You know that you wouldn’t leave me with him for five minutes, for anything in the world.”
“Do you wish to be left alone with him, my dear?” asked Mrs. Bowring, rather abruptly.
Clare was indignant.
“Wish it? No! Certainly not! But if it should happen naturally, by accident, I should not get up and run away. I’m not afraid of the man, as you seem to be. What can he do to me? And you have no idea how strangely you behave, and what ridiculous excuses you invent for me. The other day you insisted on my going in to look for a train in the time-tables when you know we haven’t the slightest intention of going away for ever so long. Really — you’re turning into a perfect duenna. I wish you would behave naturally, as you always used to do.”
“I think you exaggerate,” said Mrs. Bowring. “I never leave you alone with men you hardly know—”
“You can’t exactly say that we hardly know Mr. Johnstone, when he has been with us, morning, noon, and night, for nearly a week, mother.”
“My dear, we know nothing about him—”
“If you are so anxious to know his father’s Christian name, ask him. It wouldn’t seem at all odd. I will, if you like.”
“Don’t!” cried Mrs. Bowring, with unusual energy. “I mean,” she added in a lower tone and looking away, “it would be very rude — he would think it very strange. In fact, it is merely idle curiosity on my part — really, I would much rather not know.”
Clare looked at her mother in surprise.
“How oddly you talk!” she exclaimed. Then her tone changed. “Mother dear — is anything the matter? You don’t seem quite — what shall I say? Are you suffering, dearest? Has anything happened?”
She dropped her work, and leaned forward, her hand on her mother’s, and gazing into her face with a look of anxiety.
“No, dear,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “No, no — it’s nothing. Perhaps I’m a little nervous — that’s all.”
“I believe the air of this place doesn’t suit you. Why shouldn’t we go away at once?”
Mrs. Bowring shook her head and protested energetically.
“No — oh no! I wouldn’t go away for anything. I like the place immensely, and we are both getting perfectly well here. Oh no! I wouldn’t think of going away.”
Clare leaned back in her seat again. She was devotedly fond of her mother, and she could not but see that something was wrong. In spite of what she said, Mrs. Bowring was certainly not growing stronger, though she was not exactly ill. The pale face was paler, and there was a worn and restless look in the long-suffering, almost colourless eyes.
“I’m sorry I made such a fuss about Mr. Johnstone,” said Clare softly, after a short pause.
“No, darling,” answered her mother instantly. “I dare say I have been a little over careful. I don’t know — I had a sort of presentiment that you might take a fancy to him.”
“I know. You said so the first day. But I sha’n’t, mother. You need not be at all afraid. He is not at all the sort of man to whom I should ever take a fancy, as you call it.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Mrs. Bowring thoughtfully.
“Of course — it’s hard to explain.” Clare smiled. “But if that is what you are afraid of, you can leave us alone all day. My ‘fancy’ would be quite, quite different.”
“Very well, darling. At all events, I’ll try not to turn into a duenna.”
Johnstone did not appear again until dinner, and then he was unusually silent, only exchanging a remark with Clare now and then, and not once leaning forward to say a few words to Mrs. Bowring as he generally did. The latter had at first thought of exchanging places with her daughter, but had reflected that it would be almost a rudeness to make such a change after the second day.
They went out upon the terrace, and had their coffee there. Several of the other people did the same, and walked slowly up and down under the vines. Mrs. Bowring, wishing to destroy as soon as possible the unpleasant impression she had created, left the two together, saying that she would get something to put over her shoulders, as the air was cool.
Clare and Johnstone stood by the parapet and looked at each other. Then Clare leaned with her elbows on the wall and stared in silence at the little lights on the beach below, trying to make out the shapes of the boats which were hauled up in a long row. Neither spoke for a long time, and Clare, at least, felt unpleasantly the constraint of the unusual silence.
“It is a beautiful place, isn’t it?” observed Johnstone at last, for the sake of hearing his own voice.
“Oh yes, quite beautiful,” answered the young girl in a half-indifferent, half-discontented tone, and the words ended with a sort of girlish sniff.
Again there was silence. Johnstone, standing up beside her, looked towards the hotel, to see whether Mrs. Bowring were coming back. But she was anxious to appear indifferent to their being together, and was in no hurry to return. Johnstone sat down upon the wall, while Clare leaned over it.
“Miss Bowring!” he said suddenly, to call her attention.
“Yes?” She did not look up; but to her own amazement she felt a queer little thrill at the sound of his voice, for it had not its usual tone.
“Don’t you think I had better go to Naples?” he asked.
Clare felt herself start a little, and she waited a moment before she said anything in reply. She did not wish to betray any astonishment in her voice. Johnstone had asked the question under a sudden impulse; but a far wiser and more skilful man than himself could not have hit upon one better calculated to precipitate intimacy. Clare, on her side, was woman enough to know that she had a choice of answers, and to see that the answer she should choose must make a difference hereafter. At the same time, she had been surprised, and when she thought of it afterwards it seemed to her that the question itself had been an impertinent one, merely because it forced her to make an answer of some sort. She decided in favour of making everything as clear as possible.
“Why?” she asked, without looking round.
At all events she would throw the burden of an elucidation upon him. He was not afraid of taking it up.
“It’s this,” he answered. “I’ve rather thrust my acquaintance upon you, and, if I stay here until my people come, I can’t exactly change my seat and go and sit at the other end of the table, nor pretend to be busy all day, and never come out here and sit with you, after telling you repeatedly that I have nothing on earth to do. Can I?”
“Why should you? “
“Because Mrs. Bowring doesn’t like me.”
Clare rose from her elbows and stood up, resting her hands upon the wa
ll, but still looking down at the lights on the beach.
“I assure you, you’re quite mistaken,” she answered, with quiet emphasis. “My mother thinks you’re very nice.”
“Then why—” Johnstone checked himself, and crumbled little bits of mortar from the rough wall with his thumbs.
“Why what?”
“I don’t know whether I know you well enough to ask the question, Miss Bowring.”
“Let’s assume that you do — for the sake of argument,” said Clare, with a short laugh, as she glanced at his face, dimly visible in the falling darkness.
“Thanks awfully,” he answered, but he did not laugh with her. “It isn’t exactly an easy thing to say, is it? Only — I couldn’t help noticing — I hope you’ll forgive me, if you think I’m rude, won’t you? I couldn’t help noticing that your mother was most awfully afraid of leaving us alone for a minute, you know — as though she thought I were a suspicious character, don’t you know? Something of that sort. So, of course, I thought she didn’t like me. Do you see? Tremendously cheeky of me to talk in this way, isn’t it? “
“Do you know? It is, rather.” Clare was more inclined to laugh than before, but she only smiled in the dark.
“Well, it would be, of course, if I didn’t happen to be so painfully respectable.”
“Painfully respectable! What an expression!” This time, Clare laughed aloud.
“Yes. That’s just it. Well, I couldn’t exactly tell Mrs. Bowring that, could I? Besides, one isn’t vain of being respectable. I couldn’t say, Please, Mrs. Bowring, my father is Mr. Smith, and my mother was a Miss Brown, of very good family, and we’ve got five hundred a year in Consols, and we’re not in trade, and I’ve been to a good school, and am not at all dangerous. It would have sounded so — so uncalled for, don’t you know? Wouldn’t it?”
“Very. But now that you’ve explained it to me, I suppose I may tell my mother, mayn’t I? Let me see. Your father is Mr. Smith, and your mother was a Miss Brown—”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 806