“He caught me,” she said, in a tone of annoyance. “You were quite right. Then he showed me his name himself, on the board. It’s Johnstone—Mr. Brook Johnstone, with an E—he says that he is Scotch. Why—mother! Johnstone! How odd! That was the name of—”
She stopped short and looked at her mother, who had grown unnaturally pale during the last few seconds.
“Yes, dear. That was the name of my first husband.”
Mrs. Bowring spoke in a low voice, looking down at her work. But her hands trembled violently, and she was clearly making a great effort to control herself. Clare watched her anxiously, not at all understanding.
“Mother dear, what is it?” she asked. “The name is only a coincidence—it’s not such an uncommon name, after all—and besides—”
“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Bowring, in a dull tone. “It’s a mere coincidence—probably no relation. I’m nervous, to-day.”
Her manner seemed unaccountable to her daughter, except on the supposition that she was ill. She very rarely spoke of her first husband, by whom she had no children. When she did, she mentioned his name gravely, as one speaks of dead persons who have been dear, but that was all. She had never shown anything like emotion in connection with the subject, and the young girl avoided it instinctively, as most children, of whose parents the one has been twice married, avoid the mention of the first husband or wife, who was not their father or mother.
“I wish I understood you!” exclaimed Clare.
“There’s nothing to understand, dear,” said Mrs. Bowring, still very pale. “I’m nervous—that’s all.”
Before long she left Clare by herself and went indoors, and locked herself into her room. The rooms in the old hotel were once the cells of the monks, small vaulted chambers in which there is barely space for the most necessary furniture. During nearly an hour Mrs. Bowring paced up and down, a beat of fourteen feet between the low window and the locked door. At last she stopped before the little glass, and looked at herself, and smoothed her streaked hair.