Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You couldn’t tell me all about it, could you, mother dear?” she asked. “It seems to me it would be so much easier for us both. Perhaps I could help you. And I myself — I should know better how to act.”

  “No. I can’t tell you. I only pray that I may never have to. As for you, darling — be natural. It is a very strange position to be in, but you cannot know it — you can’t be supposed to know it. I wish I could have kept my secret better — but I broke down when you told me about the yacht. You can only help me in one way — don’t ask me questions, dear. It would be harder for me, if you knew — indeed it would. Be natural. You need not run after them, you know—”

  “I should think not!” cried Clare indignantly.

  “I mean, you need not go and sit by them and talk to them for long at a time. But don’t be suddenly cold and rude to their son. There’s nothing against — I mean, it has nothing to do with him. You mustn’t think it has, you know. Be natural — be yourself.”

  “It’s not altogether easy to be natural under the circumstances,” Clare answered, with some truth, and a great deal of repressed curiosity which she did her best to hide away altogether for her mother’s sake.

  At luncheon the Johnstones were all three placed on the opposite side of the table, and Brook was no longer Clare’s neighbour. The Bowrings were already in their places when the three entered, Sir Adam giving his arm to his wife, who seemed to need help in walking, or at all events to be glad of it. Brook followed at a little distance, and Clare saw that he was looking at her regretfully, as though he wished himself at her side again. Had she been less young and unconscious and thoroughly innocent, she must have seen by this time that he was seriously in love with her.

  Sir Adam held his wife’s chair for her, with somewhat old-fashioned courtesy, and pushed it gently as she sat down. Then he raised his head, and his eyes met Mrs. Bowring’s. For a few moments they looked at each other. Then his expression changed and softened, as it had when he had first met Clare, but Mrs. Bowring’s face grew hard and pale. He did not sit down, but to his wife’s surprise walked quietly all round the end of the table and up the other side to where Mrs. Bowring sat. She knew that he was coming, and she turned a little to meet his hand. The English old maids watched the proceedings with keen interest from the upper end.

  Sir Adam held out his hand, and Mrs. Bowring took it.

  “It is a great pleasure to me to meet you again,” he said slowly, as though speaking with an effort. “Brook says that you have been very good to him, and so I want to thank you at once. Yes — this is your daughter — Brook introduced me. Excuse me — I’ll get round to my place again. Shall we meet after luncheon?”

  “If you like,” said Mrs. Bowring in a constrained tone. “By all means,” she added nervously.

  “My dear,” said Sir Adam, speaking across the table to his wife, “let me introduce you to my old friend Mrs. Bowring, the mother of this young lady whom you have already met,” he added, glancing down at Clare’s flaxen head.

  Again Lady Johnstone slightly bent her apoplectic neck, but her expression was not stony, as it had been when she had first looked at Clare. On the contrary, she smiled very pleasantly and naturally, and her frank blue eyes looked at Mrs. Bowring with a friendly interest.

  Clare thought that she heard a faint sigh of relief escape her mother’s lips just then. Sir Adam’s heavy steps echoed upon the tile floor, as he marched all round the table again to his seat. The table itself was narrow, and it was easy to talk across it, without raising the voice. Sir Adam sat on one side of his wife, and Brook on the other, last on his side, as Clare was on hers.

  There was very little conversation at first. Brook did not care to talk across to Clare, and Sir Adam seemed to have said all he meant to say for the present. Lady Johnstone, who seemed to be a cheerful, conversational soul, began to talk to Mrs. Bowring, evidently attracted by her at first sight.

  “It’s a beautiful place when you get here,” she said. “Isn’t it? The view from my window is heavenly! But to get here! Dear me! I was carried up by two men, you know, and I thought they would have died. I hope they are enjoying their dinner, poor fellows! I’m sure they never carried such a load before!”

  And she laughed, with a sort of frank, half self-commiserating amusement at her own proportions.

  “Oh, I fancy they must be used to it,” said Mrs. Bowring, reassuringly, for the sake of saying something.

  “They’ll hate the sight of me in a week!” said Lady Johnstone. “I mean to go everywhere, while I’m here — up all the hills, and down all the valleys. I always see everything when I come to a new place. It’s pleasant to sit still afterwards, and feel that you’ve done it all, don’t you know? I shall ruin you in porters, Adam,” she added, turning her large round face slowly to her husband.

  “Certainly, certainly,” answered Sir Adam, nodding gravely, as he dissected the bones out of a fried sardine.

  “You’re awfully good about it,” said Lady Johnstone, in thanks for unlimited porters to come.

  Like many unusually stout people, she ate very little, and had plenty of time for talking.

  “You knew my husband a long time ago, then!” she began, again looking across at Mrs. Bowring.

  Sir Adam glanced at Mrs. Bowring sharply from beneath his shaggy brows.

  “Oh yes,” she said calmly. “We met before he was married.”

  The grey-headed man slowly nodded assent, but said nothing.

  “Before his first marriage?” inquired Lady Johnstone gravely. “You know that he has been married twice.”

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “Before his first marriage.”

  Again Sir Adam nodded solemnly.

  “How interesting!” exclaimed Lady Johnstone. “Such old friends! And to meet in this accidental way, in this queer place!”

  “We generally live abroad,” said Mrs. Bowring. “Generally in Florence. Do you know Florence?”

  “Oh yes!” cried the fat lady enthusiastically. “I dote on Florence. I’m perfectly mad about pictures, you know. Perfectly mad!”

  The vision of a woman cast in Lady Johnstone’s proportions and perfectly mad might have provoked a smile on Mrs. Bowring’s face at any other time.

  “I suppose you buy pictures, as well as admire them,” she said, glad of the turn the conversation had taken.

  “Sometimes,” answered the other. “Sometimes. I wish I could buy more. But good pictures are getting to be most frightfully dear. Besides, you are hardly ever sure of getting an original, unless there are all the documents — and that means thousands, literally thousands of pounds. But now and then I kick over the traces, you know.”

  Clare could not help smiling at the simile, and bent down her head. Brook was watching her, he understood and was annoyed, for he loved his mother in his own way.

  “At all events you won’t be able to ruin yourself in pictures here,” said Mrs. Bowring.

  “No — but how about the porters?” suggested Sir Adam.

  “My dear Adam,” said Lady Johnstone, “unless they are all Shylocks here, they won’t exact a ducat for every pound of flesh. If they did, you would certainly never get back to England.”

  It was impossible not to laugh. Lady Johnstone did not look at all the sort of person to say witty things, though she was the very incarnation of good humour — except when she thought that Brook was in danger of being married. And every one laughed, Sir Adam first, then Brook, and then the Bowrings. The effect was good. Lady Johnstone was really afflicted with curiosity, and her first questions to Mrs. Bowring had been asked purely out of a wish to make advances. She was strongly attracted by the quiet, pale face, with its excessive refinement and delicately traced lines of suffering. She felt that the woman had taken life too hard, and it was her instinct to comfort her, and warm her and take care of her, from the first. Brook understood and rejoiced, for he knew his mother’s tenacity about her first impressions, and he wished to have her on his side.
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  After that the ice was broken and the conversation did not flag. Sir Adam looked at Mrs. Bowring from time to time with an expression of uncertainty which sat strangely on his determined features, and whenever any new subject was broached he watched her uneasily until she had spoken. But Mrs. Bowring rarely returned his glances, and her eyes never lingered on his face even when she was speaking to him. Clare, for her part, joined in the conversation, and wondered and waited. Her theory was strengthened by what she saw. Clearly Sir Adam felt uncomfortable in her mother’s presence; therefore he had injured her in some way, and doubted whether she had ever forgiven him. But to the girl’s quick instinct it was clear that he did not stand to Mrs. Bowring only in the position of one who had harmed her. In some way of love or friendship, he had once been very fond of her. The youngest woman cannot easily mistake the signs of such bygone intercourse.

  When they rose, Mrs. Bowring walked slowly, on her side of the table, so as not to reach the door before Lady Johnstone, who could not move fast under any circumstances. They all went out together upon the terrace.

  “Brook,” said the fat lady, “I must sit down, or I shall die. You know, my dear — get me one that won’t break!”

  She laughed a little, as Brook went off to find a solid chair. A few minutes later she was enthroned in safety, her husband on one side of her and Mrs. Bowring on the other, all facing the sea.

  “It’s too perfect for words!” she exclaimed, in solid and peaceful satisfaction. “Adam, isn’t it a dream? You thin people don’t know how nice it is to come to anchor in a pleasant place after a long voyage!”

  She sighed happily and moved her arms so that their weight was quite at rest without an effort.

  Clare and Johnstone walked slowly up and down, passing and repassing, and trying to talk as though neither were aware that there was something unusual in the situation, to say the least of it. At last they stopped at the end farthest away from the others.

  “I had no idea that my father had known your mother long ago,” said Brook suddenly. “Had you?”

  “Yes — of late,” answered Clare. “You see my mother wasn’t sure, until you told me his first name,” she hastened to add.

  “Oh — I see. Of course. Stupid of me not to try and bring it into the conversation sooner, wasn’t it? But it seems to have been ever so long ago. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes. Ever so long ago.”

  “When they were quite young, I suppose. Your mother must have been perfectly beautiful when she was young. I dare say my father was madly in love with her. It wouldn’t be at all surprising, you know, would it? He was a tremendous fellow for falling in love.”

  “Oh! Was he?” Clare spoke rather coldly.

  “You’re not angry, are you, because I suggested it?” asked Brook quickly. “I don’t see that there’s any harm in it. There’s no reason why a young man as he was shouldn’t have been desperately in love with a beautiful young girl, is there?”

  “None whatever,” answered Clare. “I was only thinking — it’s rather an odd coincidence — do you mind telling me something?”

  “Of course not! What is it?”

  “Had your father ever a brother — who died? “

  “No. He had a lot of sisters — some of them are alive still. Awful old things, my aunts are, too. No, he never had any brother. Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing — it’s a mere coincidence. Did I ever tell you that my mother was married twice? My father was her second husband. The first had your name.”

  “Johnstone, with an E on the end of it?”

  “Yes — with an E.”

  “Gad! that’s funny!” exclaimed Brook. “Some connection, I dare say. Then we are connected too, you and I, not much though, when one thinks of it. Step-cousin by marriage, and ever so many degrees removed, too.”

  “You can’t call that a connection,” said Clare with a little laugh, but her face was thoughtful. “Still, it is odd that she should have known your father well, and should have married a man of the same name — with the E — isn’t it?”

  “He may have been an own cousin, for all I know,” said Brook. “I’ll ask. He’s sure to remember. He never forgets anything. And it’s another coincidence too, that my father should have been married twice, just like your mother, and that I should be the son of the second marriage, too. What odd things happen, when one comes to compare notes!”

  While they had walked up and down, Lady Johnstone had paid no attention to them, but she had grown restless as soon as she had seen that they stood still at a distance to talk, and her bright blue eyes turned towards them again and again, with sudden motherly anxiety. At last she could bear it no longer.

  “Brook!” she cried. “Brook, my dear boy!” Brook and Clare walked back towards the little group.

  “Brook, dear,” said Lady Johnstone. “Please come and tell me the names of all the mountains and places we see from here. You know, I always want to know everything as soon as I arrive.”

  Sir Adam rose from his chair.

  “Should you like to take a turn?” he asked, speaking to Mrs. Bowring and standing before her.

  She rose in silence and stepped forward, with a quiet, set face, as though she knew that the supreme moment had come.

  “Take our chairs,” said Sir Adam to Clare and Brook. “We are going to walk about a little.”

  Mrs. Bowring turned in the direction whence the young people had come, towards the end of the terrace. Sir Adam walked erect beside her.

  “Is there a way out at that end?” he asked in a low voice, when they had gone a little distance.

  “No.”

  “We can’t stand there and talk. Where can we go? Isn’t there a quiet place somewhere?”

  “Do you want to talk to me?” asked Mrs. Bowring, looking straight before her.

  “Yes, please,” answered Sir Adam, almost sharply, but still in a low tone. “I’ve waited a long time,” he added.

  Mrs. Bowring said nothing in answer. They reached the end of the walk, and she turned without pausing.

  “The point out there is called the Conca,” she said, pointing to the rocks far out below. “It curls round like a shell, you know. Conca means a sea-shell, I think. It seems to be a great place for fishing, for there are always little boats about it in fine weather.”

  “I remember,” replied Sir Adam. “I was here thirty years ago. It hasn’t changed much. Are there still those little paper-mills in the valley on the way to Ravello? They used to be very primitive.”

  They kept up their forced conversation as they passed Lady Johnstone and the young people. Then they were silent again, as they went towards the hotel.

  “We’ll go through the house,” said Mrs. Bowring, speaking low again. “There’s a quiet place on the other side — Clare and your son will have to stay with your wife.”

  “Yes, I thought of that, when I told them to take our chairs.”

  In silence they traversed the long tiled corridor with set faces, like two people who are going to do something dangerous and disagreeable together. They came out upon the platform before the deep recess of the rocks in which stood the black cross. There was nobody there.

  “We shall not be disturbed out here,” said Mrs. Bowring, quietly. “The people in the hotel go to their rooms after luncheon. We will sit down there by the cross, if you don’t mind — I’m not so strong as I used to be, you know.”

  They ascended the few steps which led up to the bench where Clare had sat on that evening which she could not forget, and they sat down side by side, not looking at each other’s faces.

  A long silence followed. Once or twice Sir Adam shifted his feet uneasily, and opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, but suddenly changed his mind. Mrs. Bowring was the first to speak.

  “Please understand,” she said slowly, glancing at him sideways, “I don’t want you to say anything, and I don’t know what you can have to say. As for my being here, it’s very simple. I
f I had known that Brook Johnstone was your son before he had made our acquaintance, and that you were coming here, I should have gone away at once. As soon as I knew him I suspected who he was. You must know that he is like you as you used to be — except your eyes. Then I said to myself that he would tell you that he had met us, and that you would of course think that I had been afraid to meet you. I’m not. So I stayed. I don’t know whether I did right or wrong. To me it seemed right, and I’m willing to abide the consequences, if there are to be any.”

  “What consequences can there be?” asked the grey-bearded man, turning his eyes slowly to her face.

  “That depends upon how you act. It might have been better to behave as though we had never met, and to let your son introduce you to me as he introduced you to Clare. We might have started upon a more formal footing, then. You have chosen to say that we are old friends. It’s an odd expression to use — but let it stand. I won’t quarrel with it. It does well enough. As for the position, it’s not pleasant for me, but it must be worse for you. There’s not much to choose. But I don’t want you to think that I expect you to talk about old times unless you like. If you have anything which you wish to say, I’ll hear it all without interrupting you. But I do wish you to believe that I won’t do anything nor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy with you. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what she was doing when she married you. God knows, there was publicity enough. Was it my fault? I suppose you’ve always thought so. Very well, then — say that it was my fault. But don’t tell your wife who I am unless she forces you to it out of curiosity.”

  “Do you think I should wish to?” asked Sir Adam, bitterly.

  “No — of course not. But she may ask you who I was and when we met, and all about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don’t want to tell lies, you know.”

  “I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That’s true enough. You were christened Lucy Waring. She need never know what your last name was. That isn’t a lie, is it?”

  “Not exactly — under the circumstances.”

  “And your daughter knows nothing, of course? I want to know how we stand, you see.”