She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said:
"And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually here. Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! I certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only person who knows . . . who knows for certain . . . ""Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave that alone?" Iremonstrated, rather annoyed at the invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. "It's true that I was the only person to see," I added. "But, as it happens, after your mysterious disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our meeting."Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable candour, if I dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say that I have seen the sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to talk about that. She couldn't imagine any connection in which . . .
Why should they?
As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To be sure.
There's no reason whatever--" thinking to myself that they would be more likely indeed to keep quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And then remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in his life, I reflected that he would assume naturally that Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from him about Flora de Barral. It had been up to now my assumption too. I saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will make no unnecessary confidences to a man. And this is as it should be.
"No--no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely. Are you much concerned?""Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in that precise demure tone, "when I came down--into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood--""Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said.
I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. What else could he have thought? And then he had been "gentleness itself." A new experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting creature. Gentleness in passion! What could have been more seductive to the scared, starved heart of that girl?
Perhaps had he been violent, she might have told him that what she came down to keep was the tryst of death--not of love. It occurred to me as I looked at her, young, fragile in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming down to keep.
She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced precision, a sort of conscious primness:
"I didn't want him to know."
I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain under his misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him.
I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too simple to understand my intention. She went on, looking down.
"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know why you were here.
I was glad when you spoke to me because this is exactly what Iwanted to ask you for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony--by any chance--anywhere--you are a sailor too, are you not?--that you would never mention--never--that--that you had seen me over there.""My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition.
"Why should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . "She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it.
The world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault.
Indeed, I don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises.
But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she could depend on my absolute silence.
"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with conviction--as a further guarantee.
She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still looking at each other she declared:
"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if Iam here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!""I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it was not of death that you were afraid."She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:
"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step.
I wonder now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which . . . "She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture of remorse and shame.
"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I understand."She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little.
He was a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . !
She remained silent for a while.
"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked.
She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her face.
"I don't know," she murmured.
I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings.
All this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I remarked cheerfully:
