Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Dishonourable?” asked Clare, her voice sinking lower and lower.

  “No — not as men look at it — oh, don’t ask me! Please don’t ask me — please don’t, darling!”

  “Then his yacht is named after you,” said the young girl in a flash of intelligence.

  “His yacht?” asked the elder woman excitedly. “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Johnstone told me that his father had a big steam yacht called the ‘Lucy’ — mother, that man loved you, he loves you still.”

  “Me? Oh no — no, he never loved me!” She laughed wildly, with quivering lips. “Don’t, child — don’t! For God’s sake don’t ask questions — you’ll drive me mad! It’s the secret of my life — the only secret I have from you — oh, Clare, if you love me at all — don’t ask me!”

  “Mother, sweet! Of course I love you!”

  The young girl, very pale and wondering, kneeled beside the elder woman and threw her arms round her and drew down her face, kissing the white cheeks and the starting tears and the faded flaxen hair. The storm subsided, almost without breaking, for Mrs. Bowring was a brave woman and, in some ways, a strong woman, and whatever her secret might be, she had kept it long and well from her daughter.

  Clare knew her, and inwardly decided that the secret must have been worth keeping. She loved her mother far too well to hurt her with questions, but she was amazed at what she herself felt of resentful curiosity to know the truth about anything which could cast a shadow upon the man she disliked, as she thought so sincerely. Her mind worked like lightning, while her voice spoke softly and her hands sought those thin, familiar, gentle fingers which were an integral part of her world and life.

  Two possibilities presented themselves. Johnstone’s father was a brother or near connection of her mother’s first husband. Either she had loved him, been deceived in him, and had married the brother instead; or, having married, this man had hated her and fought against her, and harmed her, because she was his elder brother’s wife, and he coveted the inheritance. In either case it was no fault of Brook’s. The most that could be said would be that he might have his father’s character. She inclined to the first of her theories. Old Johnstone had made love to her mother and had half broken her heart, before she had married his brother. Brook was no better — and she thought of Lady Fan. But she was strangely glad that her mother had said “not dishonourable, as men look at it.” It had been as though a cruel hand had been taken from her throat, when she had heard that.

  “But, mother,” she said presently, “these people are coming to-morrow or the next day — and they mean to stay, he says. Let us go away, before they come. We can come back afterwards — you don’t want to meet them.”

  Mrs. Bowring was calm again, or appeared to be so, whatever was passing in her mind.

  “I shall certainly not run away,” she answered in a low, steady voice. “I will not run away and leave Adam Johnstone’s son to tell his father that I was afraid to meet him, or his wife,” she added, almost in a whisper. “I’ve been weak, sometimes, my dear—” her voice rose to its natural key again, “and I’ve made a mistake in life. But I won’t be a coward — I don’t believe I am, by nature, and if I were I wouldn’t let myself be afraid now.”

  “It would not be fear, mother. Why should you suffer, if you are going to suffer in meeting him? We had much better go away at once. When they have all left, we can come back.”

  “And you would not mind going away to-morrow, and never seeing Brook Johnstone again?” asked Mrs. Bowring, quietly.

  “I? No! Why should I?”

  Clare meant to speak the truth, and she thought that it was the truth. But it was not. She grew a little paler a moment after the words had passed her lips, but her mother did not see the change of colour.

  “I’m glad of that, at all events,” said the elder woman. “But I won’t go away. No — I won’t,” she repeated, as though spurring her own courage.

  “Very well,” answered the young girl. “But we can keep very much to ourselves all the time they are here, can’t we? We needn’t make their acquaintance — at least—” she stopped short, realising that it would be impossible to avoid knowing Brook’s people if they were stopping in the same hotel.

  “Their acquaintance!” Mrs. Bowring laughed bitterly at the idea.

  “Oh — I forgot,” said Clare. “At all events, we need not meet unnecessarily. That’s what I mean, you know.”

  There was a short pause, during which her mother seemed to be thinking.

  “I shall see him alone, for I have something to say to him,” she said at last, as though she had come to a decision. “Go out, my dear,” she added. “Leave me alone a little while. I shall be all right when it is time for luncheon.”

  Her daughter left her, but she did not go out at once. She went to her own room and sat down to think over what she had seen and heard. If she went out she should probably find Johnstone waiting for her, and she did not wish to meet him just then. It was better to be alone. She would find out why the idea of not seeing him any more had hurt her after she had spoken.

  But that was not an easy matter at all. So soon as she tried to think of herself and her own feelings, she began to think of her mother. And when she endeavoured to solve the mystery and guess the secret, her thoughts flew off suddenly to Brook, and she wished that she were outside in the sunshine talking to him. And again, as the probable conversation suggested itself to her, she was glad that she was not with him, and she tried to think again. Then she forced herself to recall the scene with Lady Fan on the terrace, and she did her best to put him in the worst possible light, which in her opinion was a very bad light indeed. And his father before him — Adam — her mother had told her the name for the first time, and it struck her as an odd one — old Adam Johnstone had been a heart-breaker, and a faith-breaker, and a betrayer of women before Brook was in the world at all. Her theory held good, when she looked at it fairly, and her resentment grew apace. It was natural enough, for in her imagination she had always hated that first husband of her mother’s who had come and gone before her father; and now she extended her hatred to this probable brother, and it had much more force, because the man was alive and a reality, and was soon to come and be a visible talking person. There was one good point about him and his coming. It helped her to revive her hatred of Brook and to colour it with the inheritance of some harm done to her own mother. That certainly was an advantage.

  But she should be very sorry not to see Brook any more, never to hear him talk to her again, never to look into his eyes — which, all the same, she so unreasonably dreaded. It was beyond her powers of analysis to reconcile her like and dislike. All the little logic she had said that it was impossible to like and dislike the same person at the same time. She seemed to have two hearts, and the one cried “Hate,” while the other cried “Love.” That was absurd, and altogether ridiculous, and quite contemptible.

  There they were, however, the two hearts, fighting it out, or at least altercating and threatening to fight and hurt her. Of course “love” meant “like” — it was a general term, well contrasting with “hate.” As for really caring, beyond a liking for Brook Johnstone, she was sure that it was impossible. But the liking was strong. She exploded her difficulty at last with the bomb of a splendidly youthful quibble. She said to herself that she undoubtedly hated him and despised him, and that he was certainly the very lowest of living men for treating Lady Fan so badly — besides being a black sinner, a point which had less weight. And then she told herself that the cry of something in her to “like” instead of hating was simply the expression of what she might have felt, and should have felt, and should have had a right to have felt, had it not been for poor Lady Fan; but also of something which she assuredly did not feel, never could feel, and never meant to feel. In other words, she should have liked Brook if she had not had good cause to dislike him. She was satisfied with this explanation of her feelings, and she suddenly felt that s
he could go out and see him and talk to him without being inconsistent. She had forgotten to explain to herself why she wished him not to go away. She went out accordingly, and sat down on the terrace in the soft air.

  She glanced up and down, but Johnstone was not to be seen anywhere, and she wished that she had not come out after all. He had probably waited some time and had then gone for a walk by himself. She thought that he might have waited just a little longer before giving it up, and she half unconsciously made up her mind to requite him by staying indoors after luncheon. She had not even brought a book or a piece of work, for she had felt quite sure that he would be walking up and down as usual, with his pipe, looking as though he owned the scenery. She half rose to go in, and then changed her mind. She would give him one more chance and count fifty, before she went away, at a good quick rate.

  She began to count. At thirty-five her pace slackened. She stopped a long time at forty-five, and then went slowly to the end. But Johnstone did not come. Once again, she reluctantly decided — and she began slowly; and again she slackened speed and dragged over the last ten numbers. But he did not come.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous!” she exclaimed aloud to herself, as she rose impatiently from her seat.

  She felt injured, for her mother had sent her away, and there was no one to talk to her, and she did not care to think any more, lest the questions she had decided should again seem open and doubtful. She went into the hotel and walked down the corridor. He might be in the reading-room. She walked quickly, because she was a little ashamed of looking for him when she felt that he should be looking for her. Suddenly she stopped, for she heard him whistling somewhere. Whistling was his solitary accomplishment, and he did it very well. There was no mistaking the shakes and runs, and pretty bird-like cadences. She listened, but she bit her lip. He was light-hearted, at all events, she thought.

  The sound came nearer, and Brook suddenly appeared in the corridor, his hat on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets. As he caught sight of Clare the shrill tune ceased, and one hand removed the hat.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, for the last two hours,” he cried as he came along. “Good morning,” he said as he reached her. “I was just going back to the terrace in despair.”

  “It sounded more as though you were whistling for me,” answered Clare, with a laugh, for she was instantly happy, and pacified, and peaceful.

  “Well — not exactly!” he answered. “But I did hope that you would hear me and know that I was about — wishing you would come.”

  “I always come out in the morning,” she replied with sudden demureness. “Indeed — I wondered where you were. Let us go out, shall we?”

  “We might go for a walk,” suggested Brook.

  “It is too late.”

  “Just a little walk — down to the town and across the bridge to Atrani, and back. Couldn’t we?”

  “Oh, we could, of course. Very well — I’ve got a hat on, haven’t I? All right. Come along!”

  “My people are coming to-day,” said Brook, as they passed through the door. “I’ve just had a telegram.”

  “To-day!” exclaimed Clare in surprise, and somewhat disturbed.

  “Yes, you know I have been expecting them at any moment. I fancy they have been knocking about, you know — seeing Pæstum and all that. They are such queer people. They always want to see everything — as though it mattered!”

  “There are only the two? Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone?”

  “Yes — that’s all.” Brook laughed a little as though she had said something amusing.

  “What are you laughing at?” asked Clare, naturally enough.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s ridiculous — but it sounded funny — unfamiliar, I mean. My father has fallen a victim to knighthood, that’s all. The affliction came upon him some time ago, and his name is Adam — of all the names in the world.”

  “It was the first,” observed Clare reassuringly. “It doesn’t sound badly either — Sir Adam. I beg his pardon for calling him ‘Mr.’” She laughed in her turn.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t mind,” said Brook. “He’s not at all that sort. Do you know? I think you’ll like him awfully. He’s a fine old chap in his way, though he is a brewer. He’s much bigger than I am, but he’s rather odd, you know. Sometimes he’ll talk like anything, and sometimes he won’t open his lips. We aren’t at all alike in that way. I talk all the time, I believe — rain or shine. Don’t I bore you dreadfully sometimes? “

  “No — you never bore me,” answered Clare with perfect truth.

  “I mean, when I talk as I did yesterday afternoon,” said Johnstone with a shade of irritation.

  “Oh, that — yes! Please don’t begin again, and spoil our walk!”

  But the walk was not destined to be a long one. A narrow, paved footway leads down from the old monastery to the shore, in zigzag, between low whitewashed walls, passing at last under some houses which are built across it on arches.

  Just as they came in sight a tall old man emerged from this archway, walking steadily up the hill. He was tall and bony, with a long grey beard, shaggy bent brows, keen dark eyes, and an eagle nose. He wore clothes of rough grey woollen tweed, and carried a grey felt hat in one long hand.

  A moment after he had come out of the arch he caught sight of Brook, and his rough face brightened instantly. He waved the grey hat and called out.

  “Hulloa, my boy! There you are, eh!”

  His voice was thin, like many Scotch voices, but it carried far, and had a manly ring in it. Brook did not answer, but waved his hat.

  “That’s my father,” he said in a low tone to Clare. “May I introduce him? And there’s my mother — being carried up in the chair.”

  A couple of lusty porters were carrying Lady Johnstone up the steep ascent. She was a fat lady with bright blue eyes, like her son’s, and a much brighter colour. She had a parasol in one hand and a fan in the other, and she shook a little with every step the porters made. In the rear, a moment later, came other porters, carrying boxes and bags of all sizes. Then a short woman, evidently Lady Johnstone’s maid, came quietly along by herself, stopping occasionally to look at the sea.

  Clare looked curiously at the party as they approached. Her first impulse had been to leave Brook and go back alone to warn her mother. It was not far. But she realised that it would be much better and wiser to face the introduction at once. In less than five minutes Sir Adam had reached them. He shook hands with Brook vigorously, and looked at him as a man looks who loves his son. Clare saw the glance, and it pleased her.

  “Let me introduce you to Miss Bowring,” said Brook. “Mrs. Bowring and Miss Bowring are staying here, and have been awfully good to me.”

  Sir Adam turned his keen eyes to Clare, as she held out her hand.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but are you a daughter of Captain Bowring who was killed some years ago in Africa?”

  “Yes.” She looked up to him inquiringly and distrustfully.

  His face brightened again and softened — then hardened singularly, all at once. She could not have believed that such features could change so quickly.

  “And my son says that your mother is here! My dear young lady — I’m very glad! I hope you mean to stay.”

  The words were cordial. The tone was cold. Brook stared at his father, very much surprised to find that he knew anything of the Bowrings, for he himself had not mentioned them in his letters. But the porters, walking more slowly, had just brought his mother up to where the three stood, and waited, panting a little, and the chair swinging slightly from the shoulder-straps.

  “Dear old boy!” cried Lady Johnstone. “It is good to see you. No — don’t kiss me, my dear — it’s far too hot. Let me look at you.”

  Sir Adam gravely introduced Clare. Lady Johnstone’s fat face became stony as a red granite mummy case, and she bent her apoplectic neck stiffly.

  “Oh!” she ejaculated. “Very glad, I’m sure. Were you going for a wal
k?” she asked, turning to Brook, severely.

  “Yes, there was just time. I didn’t know when to expect you. But if Miss Bowring doesn’t mind, we’ll give it up, and I’ll install you. Your rooms are all ready.”

  It was at once clear to Clare that Lady Johnstone had never heard the name of Bowring, and that she resented the idea of her son walking alone with any young girl.

  CHAPTER X

  CLARE WENT DIRECTLY to her mother’s room. She had hardly spoken again during the few minutes while she had necessarily remained with the Johnstones, climbing the hill back to the hotel. At the door she had stood aside to let Lady Johnstone go in, Sir Adam had followed his wife, and Brook had lingered, doubtless hoping to exchange a few words more with Clare. But she was preoccupied, and had not vouchsafed him a glance.

  “They have come,” she said, as she closed Mrs. Bowring’s door behind her.

  Her mother was seated by the open window, her hands lying idly in her lap, her face turned away, as Clare entered. She started slightly, and looked round.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Already! Well — it had to come. Have you met?”

  Clare told her all that had happened.

  “And he said that he was glad?” asked Mrs. Bowring, with the ghost of a smile.

  “He said so — yes. His voice was cold. But when he first heard my name and asked about my father his face softened.”

  “His face softened,” repeated Mrs. Bowring to herself, just above a whisper, as the ghost of the smile flitted about her pale lips.

  “He seemed glad at first, and then he looked displeased. Is that it?” she asked, raising her voice again.

  “That was what I thought,” answered Clare. “Why don’t you have luncheon in your room, mother?” she asked suddenly.

  “He would think I was afraid to meet him,” said the elder woman.

  A long silence followed, and Clare sat down on a stiff straw chair, looking out of the window. At last she turned to her mother again.