Brook Johnstone's people did not come on the next day, nor on the day
after that, but he expressed no surprise at the delay, and did not again
say that it was a bore to have to wait for them. Meanwhile he spent a
great deal of his time with the Bowrings, and the acquaintance ripened
quickly towards intimacy, without passing near friendship, as such
acquaintance sometimes will, when it springs up suddenly in the shallow
ground of an out-of-the-way hotel on the Continent.
"For Heaven's sake don't let that man fall in love with you, Clare!"
said Mrs. Bowring one morning, with what seemed unnecessary vehemence.
Clare's lip curled scornfully as she thought of poor Lady Fan.
"There isn't the slightest danger of that!" she answered. "Any more than
there is of my falling in love with him," she added.
"Are you sure of that?" asked her mother. "You seem to like him.
Besides, he is very nice, and very good-looking."
"Oh yes--of course he is. But one doesn't necessarily fall in love with
every nice and good-looking man one meets."
Thereupon Clare cut the conversation short by going off to her own room.
She had been expecting for some time that her mother would make some
remark about the growing intimacy with young Johnstone. To tell the
truth, Mrs. Bowring had not the slightest ground for anxiety in any
previous attachment of her daughter. She was beginning to wonder whether
Clare would ever show any preference for any man.
But she did not at all wish to marry her at present, for she felt that
life without the girl would be unbearably lonely. On the other hand,
Clare had a right to marry. They were poor. A part of their little
income was the pension that Mrs. Bowring had been fortunate enough to
get as the widow of an officer killed in action, but that would cease at
her death, as poor Captain Bowring's allowance from his family had
ceased at his death. The family had objected to the marriage from the
first, and refused to do anything for his child after he was gone. It
would go hard with Clare if she were left alone in the world with what
her mother could leave her. On the other hand, that little, or the
prospect of it, was quite safe, and would make a great difference to
her, as a married woman. The two lived on it, with economy. Clare could
certainly dress very well on it if she married a rich man, but she could
as certainly not afford to marry a poor one.
As for this young Johnstone, he had not volunteered much information
about himself, and, though Mrs. Bowring sometimes asked him questions,
she was extremely careful not to ask any which could be taken in the
nature of an inquiry as to his prospects in life, merely because that
might possibly suggest to him that she was thinking of her daughter. And
when an Englishman is reticent in such matters, it is utterly impossible
to guess whether he be a millionaire or a penniless younger son.
Johnstone never spoke of money, in any connection. He never said that he
could afford one thing or could not afford another. He talked a good
deal of shooting and sport, but never hinted that his father had any
land. He never mentioned a family place in the country, nor anything of
the sort. He did not even tell the Bowrings to whom the yacht belonged
in which he had come, though he frequently alluded to things which had
been said and done by the party during a two months' cruise, chiefly in
eastern waters.
The Bowrings were quite as reticent about themselves, and each respected
the other's silence. Nevertheless they grew intimate, scarcely knowing
how the intimacy developed. That is to say, they very quickly became
accustomed, all three, to one another's society. If Johnstone was out of
the hotel first, of an afternoon, he moped about with his pipe in an
objectless way, as though he had lost something, until the Bowrings came
out. If he was writing letters and they appeared first, they talked in
detached phrases and looked often towards the door, until he came and
sat down beside them.
On the third evening, at dinner, he seemed very much amused at
something, and then, as though he could not keep the joke to himself, he
told his companions that he had received a telegram from his father, in
answer to one of his own, informing him that he had made a mistake of a
whole fortnight in the date, and must amuse himself as he pleased in the
interval.
"Just like me!" he observed. "I got the letter in Smyrna or somewhere--I
forget--and I managed to lose it before I had read it through. But I
thought I had the date all right. I'm glad, at all events. I was tired
of those good people, and it's ever so much pleasanter here."
Clare's gentle mouth hardened suddenly as she thought of Lady Fan.
Johnstone had been thoroughly tired of her. That was what he meant when
he spoke of "those good people."
"You get tired of people easily, don't you?" she inquired coldly.
"Oh no--not always," answered Johnstone.
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.