Adam Johnstone's Son by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER IX

  Brook Johnstone had never been in the habit of observing his sensationsnor of paying any great attention to his actions. He was not at all anactor, as Clare believed him to be, and the idea that he could ever havetaken pleasure in giving pain would have made him laugh. Possibly, itwould have made him very angry, but it certainly had no foundation atall in fact. He had been liked, loved, and made much of, not foranything he had ever taken the trouble to do, but partly for his ownsake, and partly on account of his position. Such charm as he had forwomen lay in his frankness, good humour, and simplicity of character.That he had appeared to be changeable in his affection was merely due tothe fact that he had never been in love. He vaguely recognised the factin his inner consciousness, though he would have said that he had beenin love half a dozen times; which only amounted to saying that women hehad liked had been in love with him or had thought that they were, orhad wished to have it thought that he loved them or had perhaps, likepoor Lady Fan, been willing to risk a good deal on the bare chance ofmarrying one of the best of society's matches in the end. He was tooyoung to look upon such affairs very seriously. When he had been tiredof the game he had not lacked the courage to say so, and in most caseshe had been forgiven. Lady Fan might prove an exception, but he hopednot. He was enormously far removed from being a saint, it is true, butit is due to him to repeat that he had drawn the line rigidly at acertain limit, and that all women beyond that line had been to him ashis own mother, in thought and deed. Let those who have the right tocast stones--and the cruelty to do so--decide for themselves whetherBrook Johnstone was a bad man at heart, or not. It need not be hintedthat a proportion of the stone-throwing Pharisees owe their immaculatereputation to their conspicuous lack of attraction; the little band hasa place apart and they stand there and lapidate most of us, and secretlywish that they had ever had the chance of being as bad as we are withoutbeing found out. But the great army of the pure in heart are mixed withus sinners in the fight, and though they may pray for us, they do notcarp at our imperfections--and occasionally they get hit by thePharisees just as we do, being rather whiter than we and thereforeoffering a more tempting mark for a jagged stone or a handful of piousmud. You may know the Pharisee by his intimate knowledge of the sins hehas never committed.

  Besides, though the code of honour is not worth much as compared withthe Ten Commandments, it is notably better than nothing, in the way ofmorality. It will keep a man from lying and evil speaking as well asfrom picking and stealing, and if it does not force him to honour allwomen as angels, it makes him respect a very large proportion of them asgood women and therefore sacred, in a very practical way of sacredness.Brook Johnstone always was very careful in all matters where honour andhis own feeling about honour were concerned. For that reason he had toldClare that he had never done anything very bad, whereas what she hadseen him do was monstrous in her eyes. She had not reflected that sheknew nothing about Lady Fan; and if she had heard half there was to beknown she would not have understood. That night on the platform Lady Fanhad given her own version of what had taken place on the Acropolis atsunset, and Brook had not denied anything. Clare did not reflect thatLady Fan might very possibly have exaggerated the facts very much in herstatement of them, and that at such a time Brook was certainly not theman to argue the case, since it had manifestly been his only course totake all the apparent blame on himself. Even if he had known that Clarehad heard the conversation, he could not possibly have explained thematter to her--not even if she had been an old woman--without tellingall the truth about Lady Fan, and he was too honourable a man to dothat, under any conceivable circumstances.

  He was decidedly and really in love with the girl. He knew it, becausewhat he felt was not like anything he had ever felt before. It wasanything but the pleasurable excitement to which he was accustomed.There might have been something of that if he had received even thesmallest encouragement. But, do what he would, he could find none. Theattraction increased, and the encouragement was daily less, he thought.Clare occasionally said things which made him half believe that she didnot wholly dislike him. That was as much as he could say. He cudgelledhis brains and wrung his memory to discover what he could have done tooffend her, and he could not remember anything--which was notsurprising. It was clear that she had never heard of him before he hadcome to Amalfi. He had satisfied himself of that by questions, otherwisehe would naturally enough have come near the truth and guessed that shemust have known of some affair in which he had been concerned, which shejudged harshly from her own point of view.

  He was beginning to suffer, and he was not accustomed to suffering,least of all to any of the mental kind, for his life had always gonesmoothly. He had believed hitherto that most people exaggerated, andworried themselves unnecessarily, but when he found it hard to sleep,and noticed that he had a dull, unsatisfied sort of misery with him allday long, he began to understand. He did not think that Clare couldreally enjoy teasing him, and, besides, it was not like mere teasing,either. She was evidently in earnest when she repeated that she did notlike him. He knew her face when she was chaffing, and her tone, and thelittle bending of the delicate, swan-like throat, too long for perfectbeauty, but not for perfect grace. When she was in earnest, her headrose, her eyes looked straight before her, and her voice sank to agraver note. He knew all the signs of truth, for with her it was alwaysvery near the surface, dwelling not in a deep well, but in clear water,as it were, open to the sky. Her truth was evidently truth, and herjesting was transparent as a child's.

  It looked a hopeless case, but he had no intention of considering itwithout hope, nor any inclination to relinquish his attempts. He didnot tell himself in so many words that he wished to marry her, andintended to marry her, and would marry her, if it were humanly possible,and he assuredly made no such promises to himself. Nor did he look ather as he had looked at women in whom he had been momentarilyinterested, appreciating her good points of face and figure, cataloguingand compiling her attractions so as to admire them all in turn, forgetnone, and receive their whole effect.

  He had a restless, hungry craving that left him no peace, and thatseemed to desire only a word, a look, the slightest touch of sympathy,to be instantly satisfied. And he could not get from her one softenedglance, nor one sympathetic pressure of the hand, nor one word spokenmore gravely than another, except the assurance of her genuine dislike.

  That was the only thing he had to complain of, but it was enough. Hecould not reproach her with having encouraged him, for she had told himthe truth from the first. He had not quite believed her. So much theworse for him. If he had, and if he had gone to Naples to wait for hispeople, all this would not have happened, for he had not fallen in loveat first sight. A fortnight of daily and almost hourly intercourse wasvery good and reasonable ground for being in love.

  He grew absent-minded, and his pipe went out unexpectedly, which alwaysirritated him, and sometimes he did not take the trouble to light itagain. He rose at dawn and went for long walks in the hills, with theidea that the early air and the lofty coolness would do him good, andwith the acknowledged intention of doing his walking at an hour when hecould not possibly be with Clare. For he could not keep away from her,whether Mrs. Bowring were with her or not. He was too much a man of theworld to sit all day long before her, glaring at her in shy silence, asa boy might have done, and as he would have been content to do; so hetook immense pains to be agreeable, when her mother was present, andMrs. Bowring liked him, and said that he had really a most extraordinarytalent for conversation. It was not that he ever said anything verymemorable; but he talked most of the time, and always pleasantly,telling stories about people and places he had known, discussing thelighter books of the day, and affecting that profound ignorance ofpolitics which makes some women feel at their ease, and encouragesamusing discussion.

  Mrs. Bowring watched him when she was there with a persistency whichmight have made him nervous if he had not been wholly absorbed in herdaughter. She evidently saw someth
ing in him which reminded her of someone or something. She had changed of late, and Clare was beginning tothink that she must be ill, though she scouted the suggestion, and saidthat she was growing daily stronger. She had altogether relaxed hervigilance with regard to the two young people, and seemed willing thatthey should go where they pleased together, and sit alone together bythe hour.

  "I dare say I watched him a good deal at first," she said to herdaughter. "But I have made up my mind about him. He's a very good sortof young fellow, and I'm glad that you have a companion. You see I can'twalk much, and now that you are getting better you need exercise. Afterall, one can always trust the best of one's own people. He's not fallingin love with you, is he, dear? I sometimes fancy that he looks at you asthough he were."

  "Nonsense, mother!" and Clare laughed intentionally. "But he's very goodcompany."

  "It would be very unfortunate if he did," said Mrs. Bowring, lookingaway, and speaking almost to herself. "I am not sure that we should nothave gone away--"

  "Really! If one is to be turned out of the most beautiful place in theworld because a young Englishman chooses to stop in the same hotel!Besides, why in the world should he fall in love with me? He's used toa very different kind of people, I fancy."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh--the gay set--'a' gay set, I suppose, for there are probably morethan one of them. They are quite different from us, you know."

  "That is no reason. On the contrary--men like variety andchange--change, yes," repeated Mrs. Bowring, with an odd emphasis. "Atall events, child, don't take a fancy to him!" she added. "Not that I'mmuch afraid of that. You are anything but 'susceptible,' my dear!" shelaughed faintly.

  "You need not be in the least afraid," answered Clare. "But, after all,mother--just supposing the case--I can't see why it should be such anawful calamity if we took a fancy to each other. We belong to the sameclass of people, if not to the same set. He has enough money, and I'mnot absolutely penniless, though we are as poor as church mice--"

  "For Heaven's sake, don't suggest such a thing!" cried Mrs. Bowring.

  Her face was white, and her lips trembled. There was a frightened lookin her pale eyes, and she turned her face quickly to her daughter, andquickly away again.

  "Mother!" exclaimed the young girl, in surprise. "What in the world isthe matter? I was only laughing--besides--" she stopped, puzzled. "Tellme the truth, mother," she continued suddenly. "You know about hispeople--his father is some connection of--of your first husband--there'ssome disgraceful story about them--tell me the truth. Why shouldn't Iknow?"

  "I hope you never will!" answered Mrs. Bowring, in a low voice that hada sort of horror in it.

  "Then there is something?" Clare herself turned a little paler as sheasked the question.

  "Don't ask me--don't ask me!"

  "Something disgraceful?" The young girl leaned forward as she spoke, andher eyes were wide and anxious, forcing her mother to speak.

  "Yes--no," faltered Mrs. Bowring. "Nothing to do with thisone--something his father did long ago."

  "Dishonourable?" asked Clare, her voice sinking lower and lower.

  "No--not as men look at it--oh, don't ask me! Please don't askme--please don't, darling!"

  "Then his yacht is named after you," said the young girl in a flash ofintelligence.

  "His yacht?" asked the elder woman excitedly. "What? I don'tunderstand."

  "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 quiveringlips. "Don't, child--don't! For God's sake don't ask questions--you'lldrive me mad! It's the secret of my life--the only secret I have fromyou--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 womanand threw her arms round her and drew down her face, kissing the whitecheeks and the starting tears and the faded flaxen hair. The stormsubsided, almost without breaking, for Mrs. Bowring was a brave womanand, in some ways, a strong woman, and whatever her secret might be, shehad kept it long and well from her daughter.

  Clare knew her, and inwardly decided that the secret must have beenworth keeping. She loved her mother far too well to hurt her withquestions, but she was amazed at what she herself felt of resentfulcuriosity to know the truth about anything which could cast a shadowupon the man she disliked, as she thought so sincerely. Her mind workedlike lightning, while her voice spoke softly and her hands sought thosethin, familiar, gentle fingers which were an integral part of her worldand life.

  Two possibilities presented themselves. Johnstone's father was abrother or near connection of her mother's first husband. Either she hadloved him, been deceived in him, and had married the brother instead;or, having married, this man had hated her and fought against her, andharmed her, because she was his elder brother's wife, and he coveted theinheritance. In either case it was no fault of Brook's. The most thatcould be said would be that he might have his father's character. Sheinclined to the first of her theories. Old Johnstone had made love toher mother and had half broken her heart, before she had married hisbrother. Brook was no better--and she thought of Lady Fan. But she wasstrangely glad that her mother had said "not dishonourable, as men lookat it." It had been as though a cruel hand had been taken from herthroat, when she had heard that.

  "But, mother," she said presently, "these people are coming to-morrow orthe next day--and they mean to stay, he says. Let us go away, beforethey 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 passingin 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 fatherthat I was afraid to meet him, or his wife," she added, almost in awhisper. "I've been weak, sometimes, my dear--" her voice rose to itsnatural key again, "and I've made a mistake in life. But I won't be acoward--I don't believe I am, by nature, and if I were I wouldn't letmyself be afraid now."

  "It would not be fear, mother. Why should you suffer, if you are goingto suffer in meeting him? We had much better go away at once. When theyhave all left, we can come back."

  "And you would not mind going away to-morrow, and never seeing BrookJohnstone 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 hadpassed 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 goaway. No--I won't," she repeated, as though spurring her own courage.

  "Very well," answered the young girl. "But we can keep very much toourselves all the time they are here, can't we? We needn't make theiracquaintance--at least--" she stopped short, realising that it would beimpossible to avoid knowing Brook's people if they were stopping in thesame hotel.

  "Their acquaintance!" Mrs. Bowring laughed bitterly at the idea.

  "Oh--I forgot," said Clare. "At all events, we need not meetunnecessarily. 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 atlast, as though she had come to a decision. "Go out, my dear," sheadded. "Leave me alone a little while. I shall be all right when it istime for luncheon."

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

  But that was not an easy matter at all. So soon as she tried to think ofherself and her
own feelings, she began to think of her mother. And whenshe endeavoured to solve the mystery and guess the secret, her thoughtsflew off suddenly to Brook, and she wished that she were outside in thesunshine talking to him. And again, as the probable conversationsuggested itself to her, she was glad that she was not with him, and shetried to think again. Then she forced herself to recall the scene withLady Fan on the terrace, and she did her best to put him in the worstpossible light, which in her opinion was a very bad light indeed. Andhis father before him--Adam--her mother had told her the name for thefirst time, and it struck her as an odd one--old Adam Johnstone had beena heart-breaker, and a faith-breaker, and a betrayer of women beforeBrook was in the world at all. Her theory held good, when she looked atit fairly, and her resentment grew apace. It was natural enough, for inher imagination she had always hated that first husband of her mother'swho had come and gone before her father; and now she extended her hatredto this probable brother, and it had much more force, because the manwas alive and a reality, and was soon to come and be a visible talkingperson. There was one good point about him and his coming. It helped herto revive her hatred of Brook and to colour it with the inheritance ofsome 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 hearhim talk to her again, never to look into his eyes--which, all thesame, she so unreasonably dreaded. It was beyond her powers of analysisto reconcile her like and dislike. All the little logic she had saidthat it was impossible to like and dislike the same person at the sametime. She seemed to have two hearts, and the one cried "Hate," while theother cried "Love." That was absurd, and altogether ridiculous, andquite contemptible.

  There they were, however, the two hearts, fighting it out, or at leastaltercating and threatening to fight and hurt her. Of course "love"meant "like"--it was a general term, well contrasting with "hate." Asfor really caring, beyond a liking for Brook Johnstone, she was surethat it was impossible. But the liking was strong. She exploded herdifficulty at last with the bomb of a splendidly youthful quibble. Shesaid to herself that she undoubtedly hated him and despised him, andthat he was certainly the very lowest of living men for treating LadyFan so badly--besides being a black sinner, a point which had lessweight. And then she told herself that the cry of something in her to"like" instead of hating was simply the expression of what she mighthave felt, and should have felt, and should have had a right to havefelt, had it not been for poor Lady Fan; but also of something which sheassuredly did not feel, never could feel, and never meant to feel. Inother words, she should have liked Brook if she had not had good causeto dislike him. She was satisfied with this explanation of her feelings,and she suddenly felt that she could go out and see him and talk to himwithout being inconsistent. She had forgotten to explain to herself whyshe wished him not to go away. She went out accordingly, and sat down onthe terrace in the soft air.

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

  She began to count. At thirty-five her pace slackened. She stopped along time at forty-five, and then went slowly to the end. But Johnstonedid not come. Once again, she reluctantly decided--and she beganslowly; and again she slackened speed and dragged over the last tennumbers. But he did not come.

  "Oh, this is ridiculous!" she exclaimed aloud to herself, as she roseimpatiently from her seat.

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

  The sound came nearer, and Brook suddenly appeared in the corridor, hishat on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets. As he caughtsight 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 criedas he came along. "Good morning," he said as he reached her. "I wasjust 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 meand 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? Allright. Come along!"

  "My people are coming to-day," said Brook, as they passed through thedoor. "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 theyhave been knocking about, you know--seeing Paestum and all that. Theyare such queer people. They always want to see everything--as though itmattered!"

  "There are only the two? Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone?"

  "Yes--that's all." Brook laughed a little as though she had saidsomething 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 afflictioncame upon him some time ago, and his name is Adam--of all the names inthe world."

  "It was the first," observed Clare reassuringly. "It doesn't sound badlyeither--Sir Adam. I beg his pardon for calling him 'Mr.'" She laughed inher turn.

  "Oh, he wouldn't mind," said Brook. "He's not at all that sort. Do youknow? 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'topen 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 witha 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 footwayleads down from the old monastery to the shore, in zigzag, between lowwhitewashed walls, passing at last under some houses which are builtacross 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 greybeard, shaggy bent brows, keen dark eyes, and an eagle nose. He woreclothes of rough grey woollen tweed, and carried a grey felt hat in onelong hand.

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

  "Hulloa, my boy! There you are, eh!"

  His voice was thin, like many Scotch voices, but it carried far,
and hada 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 introducehim? And there's my mother--being carried up in the chair."

  A couple of lusty porters were carrying Lady Johnstone up the steepascent. She was a fat lady with bright blue eyes, like her son's, and amuch brighter colour. She had a parasol in one hand and a fan in theother, and she shook a little with every step the porters made. In therear, a moment later, came other porters, carrying boxes and bags of allsizes. Then a short woman, evidently Lady Johnstone's maid, came quietlyalong by herself, stopping occasionally to look at the sea.

  Clare looked curiously at the party as they approached. Her firstimpulse had been to leave Brook and go back alone to warn her mother. Itwas not far. But she realised that it would be much better and wiser toface the introduction at once. In less than five minutes Sir Adam hadreached them. He shook hands with Brook vigorously, and looked at him asa 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 andMiss 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 CaptainBowring 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 atonce. She could not have believed that such features could change soquickly.

  "And my son says that your mother is here! My dear young lady--I'm veryglad! 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, forhe himself had not mentioned them in his letters. But the porters,walking more slowly, had just brought his mother up to where the threestood, and waited, panting a little, and the chair swinging slightlyfrom the shoulder-straps.

  "Dear old boy!" cried Lady Johnstone. "It is good to see you. No--don'tkiss me, my dear--it's far too hot. Let me look at you."

  Sir Adam gravely introduced Clare. Lady Johnstone's fat face becamestony as a red granite mummy case, and she bent her apoplectic neckstiffly.

  "Oh!" she ejaculated. "Very glad, I'm sure. Were you going for a walk?"she asked, turning to Brook, severely.

  "Yes, there was just time. I didn't know when to expect you. But if MissBowring doesn't mind, we'll give it up, and I'll install you. Your roomsare all ready."

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