"Well! And were you very much terrified?" I asked.
She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: "He was
gentleness itself."
I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who
had come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the
front of the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral's back with
unseeing, mournful fixity.
"Let's move this way a little," I proposed.
She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of
sight of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on
it. After all, I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were
to disentangle the words we actually exchanged from my comments you would
see that they were not so very many, including everything she had so
unexpectedly told me of her story. No, not so very many. And now it
seemed as though there would be no more. No! I could expect no more.
The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far as it went, and
perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the sun. And
I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It
was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor
bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or,
to render myself justice without false modesty--I was anxious; anxious to
know a little more.
I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a
light-hearted remark.
"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?"
"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising her downcast
eyes. When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like
catching sight of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And
for a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky
of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance
which seemed to belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son of a
poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her
demure appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest expression.
Woman is various indeed.
"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think of
my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I
haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to
me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my doing. It
isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But she, with her
ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't . . . I know
she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever cared
for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is
true. At any rate I can't forget it."