Adam Johnstones Son | Page 3

went on with her work.
Besides, she was not at all inclined to argue anything at present. She
had been ill, and her mother was worn out with taking care of her, and
they had come to Amalfi to get quite well and strong again in the air of
the southern spring. They had settled themselves for a couple of months
in the queer hotel, which was once a monastery, perched high up under
the still higher overhanging rocks, far above the beach and the busy
little town; and now, in the May afternoon, they sat side by side under
the trellis of vines on the terraced walk, their faces turned southward, in
the shade of the steep mountain behind them; the sea was blue at their
feet, and quite still, but farther out the westerly breeze that swept past
the Conca combed it to crisp roughness; then it was less blue to
southward, and gradually it grew less real, till it lost colour and melted
into a sky-haze that almost hid the southern mountains and the
lizard-like head of the far Licosa.
A bit of coarse faded carpet lay upon the ground under the two ladies'
feet, and the shady air had a soft green tinge in it from the young
vine-leaves overhead. At first sight one would have said that both were
delicate, if not ill. Both were fair, though in different degrees, and both
were pale and quiet, and looked a little weary.
The young girl sat in the deep straw chair, hatless, with bare white
hands that held her work. Her thick flaxen hair, straightly parted and
smoothed away from its low growth on the forehead, half hid small
fresh ears, unpierced. Long lashes, too white for beauty, cast very faint
light shadows as she looked down; but when she raised the lids, the
dark-blue eyes were bright, with wide pupils and a straight look, quick
to fasten, slow to let go, never yet quite softened, and yet never
mannishly hard. But, in its own way, perhaps, there is no look so hard
as the look of maiden innocence can be. There can even be something

terrible in its unconscious stare. There is the spirit of God's own fearful
directness in it. Half quibbling with words perhaps, but surely with half
truth, one might say that youth "is," while all else "has been"; and that
youth alone possesses the present, too innocent to know it all, yet too
selfish even to doubt of what is its own--too sure of itself to doubt
anything, to fear anything, or even truly to pray for anything. There is
no equality and no community in virtue; it is only original sin that
makes us all equal and human. Old Lucifer, fallen, crushed, and
damned, knows the worth of forgiveness--not young Michael, flintily
hard and monumentally upright in his steel coat, a terror to the devil
himself. And youth can have something of that archangelic rigidity.
Youth is not yet quite human.
But there was much in Clare Bowring's face which told that she was to
be quite human some day. The lower features were not more than
strong enough--the curved lips would be fuller before long, the small
nostrils, the gentle chin, were a little sharper than was natural, now,
from illness, but round in outline and not over prominent; and the
slender throat was very delicate and feminine. Only in the dark-blue
eyes there was still that unabashed, quick glance and long-abiding
straightness, and innocent hardness, and the unconscious selfishness of
the uncontaminated.
Standing on her feet, she would have seemed rather tall than short,
though really but of average height. Seated, she looked tall, and her
glance was a little downward to most people's eyes. Just now she was
too thin, and seemed taller than she was. But the fresh light was already
in the young white skin, and there was a soft colour in the lobes of the
little ears, as the white leaves of daisies sometimes blush all round their
tips.
The nervous white hands held the little bag lightly, and twined it and
sewed it deftly, for Clare was clever with her fingers. Possibly they
looked even a little whiter than they were, by contrast with the dark
stuff of her dress, and illness had made them shrink at the lower part,
robbing them of their natural strength, though not of their grace. There
is a sort of refinement, not of taste, nor of talent, but of feeling and

thought, and it shows itself in the hands of those who have it, more than
in any feature of the face, in a sort of very true proportion between the
hand and its fingers, between each finger and its joints, each joint and
each nail; a something which