CHAPTER VI
The first sign that two people no longer stand to each other in therelation of mere acquaintances is generally that the tones of theirvoices change, while they feel a slight and unaccountable constraintwhen they happen to be left alone together.
Two days passed after the little incident which had occurred at dinnerbefore Clare and Johnstone were momentarily face to face out of Mrs.Bowring's sight. At first Clare had not been aware that her mother wastaking pains to be always present when the young man was about, but whenshe noticed the fact she at once began to resent it. Such constantwatchfulness was unlike her mother, un-English, and almost unnatural.When they were all seated together on the terrace, if Mrs. Bowringwished to go indoors to write a letter or to get something she inventedsome excuse for making her daughter go with her, and stay with her tillshe came out again. A French or Italian mother could not have been moreparticular or careful, but a French or Italian girl would have beenaccustomed to such treatment, and would not have seen anything unusualin it. But Mrs. Bowring had never acted in such a way before now, and itirritated the young girl extremely. She felt that she was being treatedlike a child, and that Johnstone must see it and think it ridiculous. Atlast Clare made an attempt at resistance, out of sheer contrariety.
"I don't want to write letters!" she answered impatiently. "I wrote twoyesterday. 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 fora moment. Then she came back and sat down again.
"It's quite true," she said. "It is hot indoors. I don't think I shallwrite, after all."
Brook Johnstone could not help smiling a little, though he turned awayhis face to hide his amusement. It was so perfectly evident that Mrs.Bowring was determined not to leave Clare alone with him that he musthave been blind not to see it. Clare saw the smile, and was angry. Shewas nineteen years old, she had been out in the world, the terrace was apublic 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 fora walk. Clare raised her eyes and nodded as he lifted his hat. He wasstill smiling, and her resentment deepened. A moment later, mother anddaughter were alone. Clare did not lay down her work, nor look up whenshe spoke.
"Really, mother, it's too absurd!" she exclaimed, and a little colourcame to her cheeks.
"What is absurd, my dear?" asked Mrs. Bowring, affecting not tounderstand.
"Your abject fear of leaving me for five minutes with Mr. Johnstone. I'mnot a baby. He was laughing. I was positively ashamed! What do yousuppose could have happened, if you had gone in and written your lettersand left us quietly here? And it happens every day, you know! If youwant 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'tleave 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, byaccident, 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 howstrangely 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 thetime-tables when you know we haven't the slightest intention of goingaway for ever so long. Really--you're turning into a perfect duenna. Iwish you would behave naturally, as you always used to do."
"I think you exaggerate," said Mrs. Bowring. "I never leave you alonewith men you hardly know--"
"You can't exactly say that we hardly know Mr. Johnstone, when he hasbeen 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. Itwouldn't seem at all odd. I will, if you like."
"Don't!" cried Mrs. Bowring, with unusual energy. "I mean," she added ina lower tone and looking away, "it would be very rude--he would think itvery strange. In fact, it is merely idle curiosity on my part--really, Iwould much rather not know."
Clare looked at her mother in surprise.
"How oddly you talk!" she exclaimed. Then her tone changed. "Motherdear--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, andgazing into her face with a look of anxiety.
"No, dear," answered Mrs. Bowring. "No, no--it's nothing. Perhaps I'm alittle nervous--that's all."
"I believe the air of this place doesn't suit you. Why shouldn't we goaway 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 ofgoing away."
Clare leaned back in her seat again. She was devotedly fond of hermother, and she could not but see that something was wrong. In spite ofwhat she said, Mrs. Bowring was certainly not growing stronger, thoughshe was not exactly ill. The pale face was paler, and there was a wornand 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 alittle over careful. I don't know--I had a sort of presentiment that youmight take a fancy to him."
"I know. You said so the first day. But I sha'n't, mother. You need notbe at all afraid. He is not at all the sort of man to whom I should evertake 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 whatyou are afraid of, you can leave us alone all day. My 'fancy' would bequite, 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 unusuallysilent, only exchanging a remark with Clare now and then, and not onceleaning 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 achange after the second day.
They went out upon the terrace, and had their coffee there. Several ofthe other people did the same, and walked slowly up and down under thevines. Mrs. Bowring, wishing to destroy as soon as possible theunpleasant impression she had created, left the two together, sayingthat she would get something to put over her shoulders, as the air wascool.
Clare and Johnstone stood by the parapet and looked at each other. ThenClare leaned with her elbows on the wall and stared in silence at thelittle lights on the beach below, trying to make out the shapes of theboats which were hauled up in a long row. Neither spoke for a long time,and Clare, at least, felt unpleasantly the constraint of the unusualsilence.
"It is a beautiful place, isn't it?" observed Johnstone at last, for thesake of hearing his own voice.
"Oh yes, quite beautiful," answered the young girl in ahalf-indifferent, half-discontented tone, and the words ended with asort of girlish sniff.
Again there was silence. Johnstone, standing up beside her, lookedtowards the hotel, to see whether Mrs. Bowring were coming back. But shewas anxious to appear indifferent to their being together, and was in nohurry to return. Johnstone sat down upon the wall, while Clare leanedover it.
"Miss Bowring!" he said suddenly, to call her attention.
"Yes?" She did not look up; but to her own amazement she felt a queerlittle 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 s
he waited a moment before shesaid anything in reply. She did not wish to betray any astonishment inher voice. Johnstone had asked the question under a sudden impulse; buta far wiser and more skilful man than himself could not have hit uponone better calculated to precipitate intimacy. Clare, on her side, waswoman enough to know that she had a choice of answers, and to see thatthe answer she should choose must make a difference hereafter. At thesame time, she had been surprised, and when she thought of it afterwardsit 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 decidedin 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. Hewas 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 seatand go and sit at the other end of the table, nor pretend to be busy allday, and never come out here and sit with you, after telling yourepeatedly 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 thewall, but still looking down at the lights on the beach.
"I assure you, you're quite mistaken," she answered, with quietemphasis. "My mother thinks you're very nice."
"Then why--" Johnstone checked himself, and crumbled little bits ofmortar from the rough wall with his thumbs.
"Why what?"
"I don't know whether I know you well enough to ask the question, MissBowring."
"Let's assume that you do--for the sake of argument," said Clare, with ashort laugh, as she glanced at his face, dimly visible in the fallingdarkness.
"Thanks awfully," he answered, but he did not laugh with her. "It isn'texactly an easy thing to say, is it? Only--I couldn't help noticing--Ihope you'll forgive me, if you think I'm rude, won't you? I couldn'thelp noticing that your mother was most awfully afraid of leaving usalone for a minute, you know--as though she thought I were a suspiciouscharacter, don't you know? Something of that sort. So, of course, Ithought she didn't like me. Do you see? Tremendously cheeky of me totalk in this way, isn't it?"
"Do you know? It is, rather." Clare was more inclined to laugh thanbefore, but she only smiled in the dark.
"Well, it would be, of course, if I didn't happen to be so painfullyrespectable."
"Painfully respectable! What an expression!" This time, Clare laughedaloud.
"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 MissBrown, of very good family, and we've got five hundred a year inConsols, and we're not in trade, and I've been to a good school, and amnot at all dangerous. It would have sounded so--so uncalled for, don'tyou know? Wouldn't it?"
"Very. But now that you've explained it to me, I suppose I may tell mymother, mayn't I? Let me see. Your father is Mr. Smith, and your motherwas a Miss Brown--"
"Oh, please--no!" interrupted Johnstone. "I didn't mean it so veryliterally. But it is just about that sort of thing--just like anybodyelse. Only about our not being in trade, I'm not so sure of that. Myfather is a brewer. Brewing is not a profession, so I suppose it must bea trade, isn't it?"
"You might call it a manufacture," suggested Clare.
"Yes. It sounds better. But that isn't the question, you know. You'llsee my people when they come, and then you'll understand what Imean--they really are tremendously respectable."
"Of course!" assented the young girl. "Like the party you came with onthe yacht. That kind of people."
"Oh dear no!" exclaimed Johnstone. "Not at all those kind of people.They wouldn't like it at all, if you said so."
"Ah! indeed!" Clare was inclined to laugh again.
"The party I came with belong rather to a gay set. Awfully nice, youknow," he hastened to add, "and quite the people one knows at home. Butmy father and mother--oh no! they are quite different--the differencebetween whist and baccarat, you know, if you understand that sort ofthing--old port and brandy and soda--both very good in their way, butquite different."
"I should think so."
"Then--" Johnstone hesitated again. "Then, Miss Bowring--you don't thinkthat your mother really dislikes me, after all?"
"Oh dear no! Not in the least. I've heard her say all sorts of nicethings about you."
"Really? Then I think I'll stay here. I didn't want to be a nuisance,you know--always in the way."
"You're not in the way," answered Clare.
Mrs. Bowring came back with her shawl, and the rest of the eveningpassed off as usual. Later, when she was alone, the young girlremembered all the conversation, and she saw that it had been in herpower to make Johnstone leave Amalfi. While she was wondering why shehad not done so, since she hated him for what she knew of him, she fellasleep, and the question remained unanswered. In the morning she toldthe substance of it all to her mother, and ended by telling her thatJohnstone's father was a brewer.
"Of course," answered Mrs. Bowring absently. "I know that." Then sherealised what she had said, and glanced at Clare with an odd, scaredlook.
Clare uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Mother! Why, then--you knew all about him! Why didn't you tell me?"
A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Bowring sat with her faceturned from her daughter. Then she raised her hand and passed it slowlyover her forehead, as though trying to collect her thoughts.
"One comes across very strange things in life, my dear," she said atlast. "I am not sure that we had not better go away, after all. I'llthink about it."
Beyond this Clare could get no information, nor any explanation of thefact that Mrs. Bowring should have known something about BrookJohnstone's father. The girl made a guess, of course. The elderJohnstone must be a relation of her mother's first husband; though,considering that Mrs. Bowring had never seen Brook before now, and thatthe latter had never told her anything about his father, it was hard tosee how she could be so sure of the fact. Possibly, Brook stronglyresembled his father's family. That, indeed, was the only admissibletheory. But all that Clare knew and could put together into reasonableshape could not explain why her mother so much disliked leaving heralone with the man, even for five minutes.
In this, however, Mrs. Bowring changed suddenly, after the first eveningwhen she had left them on the terrace. She either took a totallydifferent view of the situation, or else she was ashamed of seeming towatch them all the time, and the consequence was that during the nextthree or four days they were very often together without her.
Johnstone enjoyed the young girl's society, and did not pretend to denythe fact in his own thoughts. Whatever mischief he might have been inwhile on the yacht, his natural instincts were simple and honest. In acertain way, Clare was a revelation to him of something to which he hadnever been accustomed, and which he had most carefully avoided. He hadno sisters, and as a boy he had not been thrown with girls. He was anonly son, and his mother, a very practical woman, had warned him as hegrew up that he was a great match, and had better avoid young girlsaltogether until he saw one whom he should like to marry, though how hewas to see that particular one, if he avoided all alike, was a questioninto which his mother did not choose to enter. Having first gone intosociety upon this principle, however, and having been at once taken upand made much of by an extremely fashionable young woman afflicted withan elderly and eccentric husband, it was not likely that Brook wouldreturn to the threshold of the schoolroom for women's society. He wenton as he had begun in his first "salad" days, and at five-and-twenty hehad the reputation of having done more damage than any of his youngcontemporaries, while he had never once shown the slightest inclinationto marry. His mother, always a practical woman, did not press thequestion of marriage, deeming that with his dis
position he would stand abetter chance of married peace when he had expended a good deal of whatshe called his vivacity; and his father, who came of very long-livedpeople, always said that no man should take a wife before he was thirty.As Brook did not gamble immoderately, nor start a racing stable, norpropose to manage an opera troupe, the practical lady felt that he wasreally a very good young man. His father liked him for his own sake; butas Adam Johnstone had been gay in his youth, in spite of his soberScotch blood, even beyond the bounds of ordinary "fastness," the fact ofhis being fond of Brook was not of itself a guarantee that the latterwas such a very good young man as his mother said that he was. Somehowor other Brook had hitherto managed to keep clear of any entanglementwhich could hamper his life, probably by virtue of that hardness whichhe had shown to poor Lady Fan, and which had so strongly prejudicedClare Bowring against him. His father said cynically that the lad wascanny. Hitherto he had certainly shown that he could be selfish; andperhaps there is less difference between the meanings of the Scotch andEnglish words than most people suppose.
Daily and almost hourly intercourse with such a young girl as Clare wasa totally new experience to Brook Johnstone, and there were momentswhen he hardly recognised himself for the man who had landed from theyacht ten days earlier, and who had said good-bye to Lady Fan on theplatform behind the hotel.
Hitherto he had always known in a day or two whether he was inclined tomake love to a woman or not. An inclination to make love and thesatisfaction of it had been, so far, his nearest approach to being inlove at all. Nor, when he had felt the inclination, had he everhesitated. Like a certain great English statesman of similardisposition, he had sometimes been repulsed, but he never rememberedhaving given offence. For he possessed that tactful intuition whichguides some men through life in their intercourse with women. He rarelyspoke the first word too soon, and if he were going to speak at all henever spoke too late--which error is, of the two, by far the greater. Hewas young, perhaps, to have had such experience; but in the social worldof to-day it is especially the fashion for men to be extremely young,even to youthfulness, and lack of years is no longer the atrocious crimewhich Pitt would neither attempt to palliate or deny. We have justemerged from a period of wrinkles and paint, during which we were toldthat age knew everything and youth nothing. The explosion into nonsenseof nine tenths of all we were taught at school and college has givenour children a terrible weapon against us; and women, who are allpractical in their own way, prefer the blundering whole-heartedness ofyouth to the skilful tactics and over-effective effects of themiddle-aged love-actor. In this direction, at least, the breeze thatgoes before the dawn of a new century is already blowing. Perhaps it isa good sign--but a sign of some sort it certainly is.
Brook Johnstone felt that he was in an unfamiliar position, and he triedto analyse his own feelings. He was perfectly honest about it, but hehad very little talent for analysis. On the other hand, he had a verykeen sense of what we roughly call honour. Clare was not Lady Fan, andwould probably never get into that category. Clare belonged amongst thewomen whom he respected, and he respected them all, with all his heart.They included all young girls, and his mother, and all young women whowere happily married. It will be admitted that, for a man who made nopretence to higher virtues, Brook was no worse than his contemporaries,and was better than a great many.
Be that as it may, in lack of any finer means of discrimination, hetried to define his own position with regard to Clare Bowring verysimply and honestly. Either he was falling in love, or he was not.Secondly, Clare was either the kind of girl whom he should like tomarry, spoken of by his practical mother--or she was not.
So far, all was extremely plain. The trouble was that he could not findany answers to the questions. He could not in the least be sure that hewas falling in love, because he knew that he had never really been inlove in his life. And as for saying at once that Clare was, or was not,the girl whom he should like to marry, how in the world could he tellthat, unless he fell in love with her? Of course he did not wish tomarry her unless he loved her. But he conceived it possible that hemight fall in love with her and then not wish to marry her after all,which, in his simple opinion, would have been entirely despicable. Ifthere were any chance of that, he ought to go away at once. But he didnot know whether there were any chance of it or not. He could go away inany case, in order to be on the safe side; but then, there was no reasonin the world why he should not marry her, if he should love her, and ifshe would marry him. The question became very badly mixed, and under thecircumstances he told himself that he was splitting hairs on themountains he had made of his molehills. He determined to stay where hewas. At all events, judging from all signs with which he wasacquainted, Clare was very far indeed from being in love with him, sothat in this respect his sense of honour was perfectly safe andundisturbed.
Having set his mind at rest in this way, he allowed himself to talk withher as he pleased. There was no reason why he should hamper himself inconversation, so long as he said nothing calculated to make animpression--nothing which could come under the general head of "makinglove." The result was that he was much more agreeable than he supposed.Clare's innocent eyes watched him, and her mind was divided about him.
She was utterly young and inexperienced, but she was a woman, and shebelieved him to be false, faithless, and designing. She had no idea ofthe broad distinction he drew between all good and innocent women likeherself, and all the rest whom he considered lawful prey. She concludedtherefore, very rashly, that he was simply pursuing his usual tactics, amain part of which consisted in seeming perfectly unaffected and naturalwhile only waiting for a faint sign of encouragement in order then toplay the part of the passionate lover.
The generalisations of youth are terrible. What has failed once isdespicably damned for ever. What is true to-day is true enough to-morrowto kill all other truths outright. The man whose hand has shaken onceis a coward; he who has fought one battle is to be the hero of seventy.Life is a forest of inverted pyramids, for the young; upon every pointis balanced a gigantic weight of top-heavy ideals, spreadingbase-upwards.
To Clare, everything Johnstone said or did was the working of afaithless intention towards its end. It was clear enough that he soughther and stayed with her as long as he could, day by day. Therefore heintended to make love to her, sooner or later, and then, when he wastired, he would say good-bye to her just as he had said good-bye to LadyFan, and break her heart, and have one story more to laugh over when hewas alone. It was quite clear that he could not mean anything else,after what she had seen.
All the same, he pleased her when he was with her, and attracted heroddly. She told herself that unless he had some unusual qualities hecould not possibly break hearts for pastime, as he undoubtedly did, fromyear's end to year's end. She studied the question, and reached theconclusion that his strength was in his eyes. They were the most frank,brave, good-humoured, clear, unaffected eyes she had ever seen, but shecould not look at them long. There was no reason why she should, indeed,but she hated to feel that she could not, if she chose. Whenever shetried, she at once had the feeling that he had power over her, to makeher do things she did not wish to do. That was probably the way in whichhe had influenced Lady Fan and the other women, probably a dozen,thought Clare. If they were really as honest as they seemed, she thoughtshe should have been able to meet them without the least sensation ofnervousness.
One day she caught herself wishing that he had never done the thing sheso hated. She was too honest to attribute to him outward defects whichhe did not possess, and she could not help thinking what a fine fellowhe would be if he were not so bad. She might have liked him very much,then. But as it was, it was impossible that she should ever not hatehim. Then she smiled to herself, as she thought how surprised he wouldbe if he could guess what she thought of him.
But there was no probability of that, for she felt that she had no rightto know what she knew, and so she treated him always, as she thought,with the same even, indifferent
civility. But not seldom she knew thatshe was wickedly wishing that he might really fall in love with her andfind out that men could break their hearts as well as women. She shouldlike to fight with him, with his own weapons, for the glory of all hersex, and make him thoroughly miserable for his sins. It could not bewrong to wish that, after what she had seen, but it would be very wrongto try and make him fall in love, just with that intention. That wouldbe almost as bad as what he had done; not quite so bad, of course,because it would serve him right, but yet a deed which she might beashamed to remember.
She herself felt perfectly safe. She was neither sentimental norsusceptible, for if she had been one or the other she must by this timehave had some "experience," as she vaguely called it. But she had not.She had never even liked any man so much as she liked this man whom shehated. This was not a contradiction of facts, which, as Euclid teachesus, is impossible. She liked him for what she saw, and she hated him forwhat she knew.
One day, when Mrs. Bowring was present, the conversation turned upon arecent novel in which the hero, after making love to a woman, found thathe had made a mistake, and promptly made love to her sister, whom hemarried in the end.
"I despise that sort of man!" cried Clare, rather vehemently, andflashing her eyes upon Johnstone.
For a moment she had thought that she could surprise him, that he wouldlook away, or change colour, or in some way betray his most guiltyconscience. But he did not seem in the least disturbed, and met herglance as calmly as ever.
"Do you?" he asked with an indifferent laugh. "Why? The fellow washonest, at all events. He found that he didn't love the one to whom hewas engaged, and that he did love the other. So he set things straightbefore it was too late, and married the right one. He was a verysensible man, and it must have taken courage to be so honest about it."
"Courage!" exclaimed the young girl in high scorn. "He was a brute and acoward!"
"Dear me!" laughed Brook. "Don't you admit that a man may ever make amistake?"
"When a man makes a mistake of that sort, he should either cut histhroat, or else keep his word to the woman and try to make her happy."
"That's a violent view--really! It seems to me that when a man has madea mistake the best thing to do is to go and say so. The bigger themistake, the harder it is to acknowledge it, and the more courage itneeds. Don't you think so, Mrs. Bowring?"
"The mistake of all mistakes is a mistake in marriage," said the elderwoman, looking away. "There is no remedy for that, but death."
"Yes," answered Clare. "But don't you think that I'm right? It's whatyou say, after all--"
"Not exactly, my dear. No man who doesn't love a woman can make herhappy for long."
"Well--a man who makes a woman think that he loves her, and then leavesher for some one else, is a brute, and a beast, and a coward, and awretch, and a villain--and I hate him, and so do all women!"
"That's categorical!" observed Brook, with a laugh. "But I dare say youare quite right in theory, only practice is so awfully different, youknow. And a woman doesn't thank a man for pretending to love her."
Clare's eyes flashed almost savagely, and her lip curled in scorn.
"There's only one right," she said. "I don't know how many wrongs thereare--and I don't want to know!"
"No," answered Brook, gravely enough. "And there is no reason why youever should."