CHAPTER XIII
Sir Adam sat still in his place and smoked another thick cigarettebefore he moved. Then he roused himself, got up, sat down at his table,and took a large sheet of paper from a big leather writing-case.
He had no hesitation about what he meant to put down. In a quarter of anhour he had written out a new will, in which he left his whole fortuneto his only son Brook, on condition that Brook did not marry Mrs.Crosby. But if he married her before his father's death he was to havenothing, and if he married her afterwards he was to forfeit the whole,to the uttermost farthing. In either of these cases the property was togo to a third person. Sir Adam hesitated a moment, and then wrote thename of one of his sisters as the conditional legatee. His wife hadplenty of money of her own, and besides, the will was a mere formality,drawn up and to be executed solely with a view to checking Lady Fan'senthusiasm. He did not sign it, but folded it smoothly and put it intohis pocket. He also took his own pen, for he was particular in mattersappertaining to the mechanics of writing, and very neat in all he did.
He went out and wandered up and down the terrace in the heat, but no onewas there. Then he knocked at his wife's door, and found her absorbed inan interesting conversation with her maid in regard to matters of dress,as connected with climate. Lady Johnstone at once appealed to him, andthe maid eyed him with suspicion, fearing his suggestions. He satisfiedher, however, by immediately suggesting that she should go away, whereatshe smiled and departed.
Lady Johnstone at once understood that something very serious was in theair. A wonderful good fellowship existed between husband and wife; butthey very rarely talked of anything which could not have been discussed,figuratively, on the housetops.
"Brook has got himself into a scrape with that Mrs. Crosby, my dear,"said Sir Adam. "What you heard is all more or less true. She has reallybeen to a solicitor, and means to take steps to get a divorce. Of courseshe could get it easily enough. If she did, people would say that Brookhad let her go that far, telling her that he would marry her, and thenhad changed his mind and left her to her fate. We can't let that happen,you know."
Lady Johnstone looked at her husband with anxiety while he wasspeaking, and then was silent for a few seconds.
"Oh, you Johnstones! You Johnstones!" she cried at last, shaking herhead. "You're perfectly incorrigible!"
"Oh no, my dear," answered Sir Adam; "don't forget me, you know."
"You, Adam!"
Her tone expressed an extraordinary conflict of varyingsentiment--amusement, affection, reproach, a retrospective distrust ofwhat might have been, but could not be, considering Sir Adam's age.
"Never mind me, then," he answered. "I've made a will cutting Brook offwith nothing if he marries Mrs. Crosby, and I'm going to send her a copyof it to-day. That will be enough, I fancy."
"Adam!"
"Yes--what? Do you disapprove? You always say that you are a practicalwoman, and you generally show that you are. Why shouldn't I take thepractical method of stopping this woman as soon as possible? She wantsmy money--she doesn't want my son. A fortune with any other name wouldsmell as sweet."
"Yes--but--"
"But what?"
"I don't know--it seems--somehow--" Lady Johnstone was perplexed toexpress what she meant just then. "I mean," she added suddenly, "it'streating the woman like a mere adventuress, you know--"
"That's precisely what Mrs. Crosby is, my dear," answered Sir Adamcalmly. "The fact that she comes of decent people doesn't alter the casein the least. Nor the fact that she has one rich husband, and wishes toget another instead. I say that her husband is rich, but I'm very surehe has ruined himself in the last two years, and that she knows it. Sheis not the woman to leave him as long as he has money, for he lets herdo anything she pleases, and pays her well to leave him alone. But hehas got into trouble--and rats leave a sinking ship, you know. You maysay that I'm cynical, my dear, but I think you'll find that I'm tellingyou the facts as they are."
"It seems an awful insult to the woman to send her a copy of your will,"said Lady Johnstone.
"It's an awful insult to you when she tries to get rid of her husband tomarry your only son, my dear."
"Oh--but he'd never marry her!"
"I'm not sure. If he thought it would be dishonourable not to marry her,he'd be quite capable of doing it, and of blowing out his brainsafterwards."
"That wouldn't improve her position," observed the practical LadyJohnstone.
"She'd be the widow of an honest man, instead of the wife of ablackguard," said Sir Adam. "However, I'm doing this on my ownresponsibility. What I want is that you should witness the will."
"And let Mrs. Crosby think I made you do this? No--"
"Nonsense. I sha'n't copy the signatures--"
"Then why do you need them at all?"
"I'm not going to write to her that I've made a will, if I haven't,"answered Sir Adam. "A will isn't a will unless it's witnessed. I'm notgoing to lie about it, just to frighten her. So I want you and Mrs.Bowring to witness it."
"Mrs. Bowring?"
"Yes--there are no men here, and Brook can't be a witness, because he'sinterested. You and Mrs. Bowring will do very well. But there's anotherthing--rather an extraordinary thing--and I won't let you sign with heruntil you know it. It's not a very easy thing to tell you, my dear."
Lady Johnstone shifted her fat hands and folded them again, and herfrank blue eyes gazed at her husband for a moment.
"I can guess," she said, with a good-natured smile. "You told me youwere old friends--I suppose you were in love with her somewhere!" Shelaughed and shook her head. "I don't mind," she added. "It's one more,that's all--one that I didn't know of. She's a very nice woman, and I'vetaken the greatest fancy to her!"
"I'm glad you have," said Sir Adam, gravely. "I say, my dear--don't besurprised, you know--I warned you. We knew each other very well--it'snot what you think at all, and she was altogether in the right and I wasquite in the wrong about it. I say, now--don't be startled--she's mydivorced wife--that's all."
"She! Mrs. Bowring! Oh, Adam--how could you treat her so!"
Lady Johnstone leaned back in her chair and slowly turned her head tillshe could look out of the window. She was almost rosy with surprise--achange of colour in her sanguine complexion which was equivalent toextreme pallor in other persons. Sir Adam looked at her affectionately.
"What an awfully good woman you are!" he exclaimed, in genuineadmiration.
"I! No, I'm not good at all. I was thinking that if you hadn't been sucha brute to her I could never have married you. I don't suppose that isgood, is it? But you were a brute, all the same, Adam, dear, to hurtsuch a woman as that!"
"Of course I was! I told you so when I told you the story. But I didn'texpect that you'd ever meet."
"No, it is an extraordinary thing. I suppose that if I had any nerves Ishould faint. It would be an awful thing if I did; you'd have to getthose porters to pick me up!" She smiled meditatively. "But I haven'tfainted, you see. And, after all, I don't see why it should be so verydreadful, do you? You see, you've rather broken me in to the idea oflots of other people in your life, and I've always pitied her sincerely.I don't see why I should stop pitying her because I've met her and takensuch a fancy to her without knowing who she was. Do you?"
"Most women would," observed Sir Adam. "It's lucky that you and shehappen to be the two best women in the world. I told Brook so thismorning."
"Brook? Have you told him?"
"I had to. He wants to marry her daughter."
"Brook! It's impossible!"
Lady Johnstone's tone betrayed so much more surprise and displeasurethan when her husband had told her of Mrs. Bowring's identity that hestared at her in surprise.
"I don't see why it's impossible," he said, "except that she hasrefused him once. That's nothing. The first time doesn't count."
"He sha'n't!" said the fat lady, whose vivid colour had come back."He'll make her miserable--just as you--no, I won't say that! But theyare not
in the least suited to one another--he's far too young; thereare fifty reasons."
"Brook won't act as I did, my dear," said Sir Adam. "He's like you inthat. He'll make as good a husband as you have been a good wife--"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Lady Johnstone. "You're all alike, youJohnstones! I was talking to him this morning about her--I knew therewas the beginning of something--and I told him what I thought. You'reall bad, and I love you all; but if you think that Clare Bowring is aspractical as I am, you're very much mistaken, Adam, dear! She'll breakher heart--"
"If she does, I'll shoot him," answered the old man with a grim smile."I told him so."
"Did you? Well, I am glad you take that view of it," said LadyJohnstone, thoughtfully, and not at all realising what she was saying."I'm glad I'm not a nervous woman," she added, beginning to fan herself."I should be in my grave, you know."
"No--you are not nervous, my dear, and I'm very glad of it. I supposeit really is rather a trying situation. But if I didn't know you, Iwouldn't have told you all this. You've spoiled me, you know--you reallyhave been so tremendously good to me--always, dear."
There was a rough, half unwilling tenderness in his voice, and his bigbony hand rested gently on the fat lady's shoulder, as he spoke. Shebent her head to one side, till her large red cheek touched the brownknuckles. It was, in a way, almost grotesque. But there was thatsomething in it which could make youth and beauty and passionridiculous--the outspoken truthful old rake and the ever-forgiving wife.Who shall say wherein pathos lies? And yet it seems to be something morethan a mere hack-writer's word, after all. The strangest acts of lifesometimes go off in such an oddly quiet humdrum way, and then all atonce there is the little quiver in the throat, when one least expectsit--and the sad-eyed, faithful, loving angel has passed by quickly, lowand soft, his gentle wings just brushing the still waters of our unwepttears.
Sir Adam left his wife to go in search of Mrs. Bowring. He sent amessage to her, and she came out and met him in the corridor. They wentinto the reading-room together, and he shut the door. In a few words hetold her all that he had told his wife about Mrs. Crosby, and asked herwhether she had any objection to signing the document as a witness,merely in order that he might satisfy himself by actually executing it.
"It is high handed," said Mrs. Bowring. "It is like you--but I supposeyou have a right to save your son from such trouble. But there issomething else--do you know what has happened? He has been making loveto Clare--he has asked her to marry him, and she has refused. She toldme this morning--and I have told her the truth--that you and I were oncemarried."
She paused, and watched Sir Adam's furrowed face.
"I'm glad of that," he said. "I'm glad that it has all come out on thesame day. He knows everything, and he has told me everything. I don'tknow how it's all going to end, but I want you to believe one thing. Ifhe had guessed the truth, he would never have said a word of love toher. He's not that kind of boy. You do believe me, don't you?"
"Yes, I believe you. But the worst of it is that she cares for himtoo--in a way I can't understand. She has some reason, or she thinks shehas, for disliking him, as she calls it. She wouldn't tell me. But shecares for him all the same. She has told him, though she won't tell me.There is something horrible in the idea of our children falling in lovewith each other."
Mrs. Bowring spoke quietly, but her pale face and nervous mouth toldmore than her words.
Sir Adam explained to her shortly what had happened on the first eveningafter Brook's arrival, and how Clare had heard it all, sitting in theshadow just above the platform. Mrs. Bowring listened in silence,covering her eyes with her hands. There was a long pause after he hadfinished speaking, but still she said nothing.
"I should like him to marry her," said Sir Adam at last, in a low voice.
She started and looked at him uneasily, remembering how well she hadonce loved him, and how he had broken her heart when she was young. Hemet her eyes quietly.
"You don't know him," he said. "He loves her, and he will be toher--what I wasn't to you."
"How can you say that he loves her? Three weeks ago he loved that Mrs.Crosby."
"He? He never cared for her--not even at first."
"He was all the more heartless and bad to make her think that he did."
"She never thought so, for a moment. She wanted my money, and shethought that she could catch him."
"Perhaps--I saw her, and I did not like her face. She had the look of anadventuress about her. That doesn't change the main facts. Your son andshe were--flirting, to say the least of it, three weeks ago. And now hethinks himself in love with my daughter. It would be madness to trustsuch a man--even if there were not the rest to hinder their marriage.Adam--I told you that I forgave you. I have forgiven you--God knows. Butyou broke my life at the beginning like a thread. You don't know allthere has been to forgive--indeed, you don't. And you are asking me torisk Clare's life in your son's hands, as I risked mine in yours. It'stoo much to ask."
"But you say yourself that she loves him."
"She cares for him--that was what I said. I don't believe in love as Idid. You can't expect me to."
She turned her face away from him, but he saw the bitterness in it, andit hurt him. He waited a moment before he answered her.
"Don't visit my sins on your daughter, Lucy," he said at last. "Don'tforget that love was a fact before you and I were born, and will be afact long after we are dead. If these two love each other, let themmarry. I hope that Clare is like you, but don't take it for grantedthat Brook is like me. He's not. He's more like his mother."
"And your wife?" said Mrs. Bowring suddenly. "What would she say tothis?"
"My wife," said Sir Adam, "is a practical woman."
"I never was. Still--if I knew that Clare loved him--if I could believethat he could love her faithfully--what could I do? I couldn't forbidher to marry him. I could only pray that she might be happy, or at leastthat she might not break her heart."
"You would probably be heard, if anybody is. And a man must believe inGod to explain your existence," added Sir Adam, in a gravely meditativetone. "It's the best argument I know."
CHAPTER XIV
Brook Johnstone had gone to his room when he had left his father, andwas hastily packing his belongings, for he had made up his mind to leaveAmalfi at once without consulting anybody. It is a special advantage ofplaces where there is no railway that one can go away at a moment'snotice, without waiting tedious hours for a train. Brook did nothesitate, for it seemed to him the only right thing to do, after Clare'srefusal, and after what his father had told him. If she had loved him,he would have stayed in spite of every opposition. If he had never beentold her mother's history, he would have stayed and would have tried tomake her love him. As it was, he set his teeth and said to himself thathe would suffer a good deal rather than do anything more to win theheart of Mrs. Bowring's daughter. He would get over it somehow in theend. He fancied Clare's horror if she should ever know the truth, andhis fear of hurting her was as strong as his love. He made no phrases tohimself, and he thought of nothing theatrical which he should like tosay. He just set his teeth and packed his clothes alone. Possibly heswore rather unmercifully at the coat which would not fit into the rightplace, and at the starched shirt-cuffs which would not lie flat until hesmashed them out of shape with unsteady hands.
When he was ready, he wrote a few words to Clare. He said that he wasgoing away immediately, and that it would be very kind of her to let himsay good-bye. He sent the note by a servant, and waited in the corridorat a distance from her door.
A moment later she came out, very pale.
"You are not really going, are you?" she asked, with wide and startledeyes. "You can't be in earnest?"
"I'm all ready," he answered, nodding slowly. "It's much better. I onlywanted to say good-bye, you know. It's awfully kind of you to come out."
"Oh--I wouldn't have--" but she checked herself, and glanced up and downthe long corridor. "We can't talk her
e," she added.
"It's so hot outside," said Brook, remembering how she had complained ofthe heat an hour earlier.
"Oh no--I mean--it's no matter. I'd rather go out for a moment."
She began to walk towards the door while she was speaking. They reachedit in silence, and went out into the blazing sun. Clare had Brook's notestill in her hand, and held it up to shield the glare from the side ofher face as they crossed the platform. Then she realised that she hadbrought him to the very spot whereon he had said good-bye to Lady Fan.She stopped, and he stood still beside her.
"Not here," she said.
"No--not here," he answered.
"There's too much sun--really," said she, as the colour rose faintly inher cheeks.
"It's only to say good-bye," Brook answered sadly. "I shall alwaysremember you just as you are now--with the sun shining on your hair."
It was so bright that it dazzled him as he looked. In spite of the heatshe did not move, and their eyes met.
"Mr. Johnstone," Clare began, "please stay. Please don't let me feelthat I have sent you away." There was a shade of timidity in the tone,and the eyes seemed brave enough to say something more. Brook hesitated.
"Well--no--it isn't that exactly. I've heard something--my father hastold me something since I saw you--"
He stopped short and looked down.
"What have you heard?" she asked. "Something dreadful about us?"
"About us all--about him, principally. I can't tell you. I reallycan't."
"About him--and my mother? That they were married and separated?"
The steady innocent eyes had waited for him to look up again. He startedas he heard her words.
"You don't mean to say that you know it too?" he cried. "Who has daredto tell you?"
"My mother--she was quite right. It's wrong to hide such things--sheought to have told me at once. Why shouldn't I have known it?"
"Doesn't it seem horrible to you? Don't you dislike me more than ever?"
"No. Why should I? It wasn't your fault. What has it to do with you? Orwith me? Is that the reason why you are going away so suddenly?"
Brook stared at her in surprise, and the dawn of returning gladness wasin his face for a moment.
"We have a right to live, whatever they did in their day," said Clare."There is no reason why you should go away like this, at a moment'snotice."
With an older woman he would have understood the first time, but he didnot dare to understand Clare, nor to guess that there was anything to beunderstood.
"Of course we have a right to live," he answered, in a constrained tone."But that does not mean that I may stay here and make your life aburden. So I'm going away. It was quite different before I knew allthis. Please don't stay out here--you'll get a sunstroke. I only wantedto say good-bye."
Man-like, having his courage at the striking-point, he wished to get itall over quickly and be off. The colour sank from Clare's face again,and she stood quite still for a moment, looking at him. "Good-bye," hesaid, holding out his hand, and trying hard to smile a little.
Clare looked at him still, but her hand did not meet his, though hewaited, holding it out to her. Her face hardened as though she weremaking an effort, then softened again, and still he waited.
"Won't you say good-bye to me?" he asked unsteadily.
She hesitated a moment longer.
"No!" she answered suddenly. "I--I can't!"
* * * * *
And here the story comes to its conclusion, as many stories out of thelives of men and women seem to end at what is only their turning-point.For real life has no conclusion but real death, and that is a sad endingto a tale, and one which may as well be left to the imagination when itis possible.
Stories of strange things, which really occur, very rarely have whatused to be called a "moral" either. All sorts of things happen to peoplewho afterwards go on living just the same, neither much better nor muchworse than they were in the beginning. The story is a slice, as it were,cut from the most interesting part of a life, generally at the pointwhere that life most closely touches another, so that the future of thetwo momentarily depends upon each separately, and upon both together.The happiness or unhappiness of both, for a long time to come, isfounded upon the action of each just at those moments. And sometimes, asin the tale here told, the least promising of all the persons concernedis the one who helps matters out. The only logical thing about life isthe certainty that it must end. If there were any logic at all aboutwhat goes between birth and death, men would have found it out long ago,and we should all know how to live as soon as we leave school; whereaswe spend our lives under Fate's ruler, trying to understand, while sheraps us over the knuckles every other minute because we cannot learnour lesson and sit up straight, and be good without being prigs, and doright without sticking it through other people's peace of mind as onesticks a pin through a butterfly.
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