Brook Johnstone had never been in the habit of observing his sensations
nor of paying any great attention to his actions. He was not at all an
actor, as Clare believed him to be, and the idea that he could ever have
taken pleasure in giving pain would have made him laugh. Possibly, it
would have made him very angry, but it certainly had no foundation at
all in fact. He had been liked, loved, and made much of, not for
anything he had ever taken the trouble to do, but partly for his own
sake, and partly on account of his position. Such charm as he had for
women lay in his frankness, good humour, and simplicity of character.
That he had appeared to be changeable in his affection was merely due to
the fact that he had never been in love. He vaguely recognised the fact
in his inner consciousness, though he would have said that he had been
in love half a dozen times; which only amounted to saying that women he
had liked had been in love with him or had thought that they were, or
had wished to have it thought that he loved them or had perhaps, like
poor Lady Fan, been willing to risk a good deal on the bare chance of
marrying one of the best of society's matches in the end. He was too
young to look upon such affairs very seriously. When he had been tired
of the game he had not lacked the courage to say so, and in most cases
he had been forgiven. Lady Fan might prove an exception, but he hoped
not. He was enormously far removed from being a saint, it is true, but
it is due to him to repeat that he had drawn the line rigidly at a
certain limit, and that all women beyond that line had been to him as
his own mother, in thought and deed. Let those who have the right to
cast stones--and the cruelty to do so--decide for themselves whether
Brook Johnstone was a bad man at heart, or not. It need not be hinted
that a proportion of the stone-throwing Pharisees owe their immaculate
reputation to their conspicuous lack of attraction; the little band has
a place apart and they stand there and lapidate most of us, and secretly
wish that they had ever had the chance of being as bad as we are without
being found out. But the great army of the pure in heart are mixed with
us sinners in the fight, and though they may pray for us, they do not
carp at our imperfections--and occasionally they get hit by the
Pharisees just as we do, being rather whiter than we and therefore
offering a more tempting mark for a jagged stone or a handful of pious
mud. You may know the Pharisee by his intimate knowledge of the sins he
has never committed.
Besides, though the code of honour is not worth much as compared with
the Ten Commandments, it is notably better than nothing, in the way of
morality. It will keep a man from lying and evil speaking as well as
from picking and stealing, and if it does not force him to honour all
women as angels, it makes him respect a very large proportion of them as
good women and therefore sacred, in a very practical way of sacredness.
Brook Johnstone always was very careful in all matters where honour and
his own feeling about honour were concerned. For that reason he had told
Clare that he had never done anything very bad, whereas what she had
seen him do was monstrous in her eyes. She had not reflected that she
knew nothing about Lady Fan; and if she had heard half there was to be
known she would not have understood. That night on the platform Lady Fan
had given her own version of what had taken place on the Acropolis at
sunset, and Brook had not denied anything. Clare did not reflect that
Lady Fan might very possibly have exaggerated the facts very much in her
statement of them, and that at such a time Brook was certainly not the
man to argue the case, since it had manifestly been his only course to
take all the apparent blame on himself. Even if he had known that Clare
had heard the conversation, he could not possibly have explained the
matter to her--not even if she had been an old woman--without telling
all the truth about Lady Fan, and he was too honourable a man to do
that, under any conceivable circumstances.
He was decidedly and really in love with the girl. He knew it, because
what he felt was not like anything he had ever felt before. It was
anything but the pleasurable excitement to which he was accustomed.
There might have been something of that if he had received even the
smallest encouragement. But, do what he would, he could find none. The
attraction increased, and the encouragement was daily less, he thought.
Clare occasionally said things which made him half believe that she did
not wholly dislike him. That was as much as he could say. He cudgelled
his brains and wrung his memory to discover what he could have done to
offend her, and he could not remember anything--which was not
surprising. It was clear that she had never heard of him before he had
come to Amalfi. He had satisfied himself of that by questions, otherwise
he would naturally enough have come near the truth and guessed that she
must have known of some affair in which he had been concerned, which she
judged 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 gone
smoothly. He had believed hitherto that most people exaggerated, and
worried themselves unnecessarily, but when he found it hard to sleep,
and noticed that he had a dull, unsatisfied sort of misery with him all
day long, he began to understand. He did not think that Clare could
really enjoy teasing him, and, besides, it was not like mere teasing,
either. She was evidently in earnest when she repeated that she did not
like him. He knew her face when she was chaffing, and her tone, and the
little bending of the delicate, swan-like throat, too long for perfect
beauty, but not for perfect grace. When she was in earnest, her head
rose, her eyes looked straight before her, and her voice sank to a
graver note. He knew all the signs of truth, for with her it was always
very 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 her
jesting was transparent as a child's.
It looked a hopeless case, but he had no intention of considering it
without hope, nor any inclination to relinquish his attempts. He did
not tell himself in so many words that he wished to marry her, and
intended 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 at
her as he had looked at women in whom he had been momentarily
interested, appreciating her good points of face and figure, cataloguing
and compiling her attractions so as to admire them all in turn, forget
none, and receive their whole effect.
He had a restless, hungry craving that left him no peace, and that
seemed to desire only a word, a look, the slightest touch of sympathy,
to be instantly satisfied. And he could not get from her one softened
glance, nor one sympathetic pressure of the hand, nor one word spoken
more gravely than another, except the assurance of her genuine dislike.
That was the only thing he had to complain of, but it was enough. He
could not reproach her with having encouraged him, for she had told him
the truth from the first. He had not quite believed her. So much the
worse for him. If he had, and if he had gone to Naples to wait for his
people, all this would not have happened, for he had not fallen in love
at first sight. A fortnight of daily and almost hourly intercourse was
very good and reasonable ground for being in love.
He grew absent-minded, and his pipe went out unexpectedly, which always
irritated him, and sometimes he did not take the trouble to light it
again. He rose at dawn and went for long walks in the hills, with the
idea that the early air and the lofty coolness would do him good, and
with the acknowledged intention of doing his walking at an hour when he
could 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 the
world to sit all day long before her, glaring at her in shy silence, as
a boy might have done, and as he would have been content to do; so he
took immense pains to be agreeable, when her mother was present, and
Mrs. Bowring liked him, and said that he had really a most extraordinary
talent for conversation. It was not that he ever said anything very
memorable; but he talked most of the time, and always pleasantly,
telling stories about people and places he had known, discussing the
lighter books of the day, and affecting that profound ignorance of
politics which makes some women feel at their ease, and encourages
amusing discussion.
Mrs. Bowring watched him when she was there with a persistency which
might have made him nervous if he had not been wholly absorbed in her
daughter. She evidently saw something in him which reminded her of some
one or something. She had changed of late, and Clare was beginning to
think that she must be ill, though she scouted the suggestion, and said
that she was growing daily stronger. She had altogether relaxed her
vigilance with regard to the two young people, and seemed willing that
they should go where they pleased together, and sit alone together by
the hour.
"I dare say I watched him a good deal at first," she said to her
daughter. "But I have made up my mind about him. He's a very good sort
of young fellow, and I'm glad that you have a companion. You see I can't
walk much, and now that you are getting better you need exercise. After
all, one can always trust the best of one's own people. He's not falling
in love with you, is he, dear? I sometimes fancy that he looks at you as
though he were."
"Nonsense, mother!" and Clare laughed intentionally. "But he's very good
company."
"It would be very unfortunate if he did," said Mrs. Bowring, looking
away, and speaking almost to herself. "I am not sure that we should not
have gone away--"
"Really! If one is to be turned out of the most beautiful place in the
world 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 to
a very different kind of people, I fancy."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh--the gay set--'a' gay set, I suppose, for there are probably more
than one of them. They are quite different from us, you know."
"That is no reason. On the contrary--men like variety and
change--change, yes," repeated Mrs. Bowring, with an odd emphasis. "At
all events, child, don't take a fancy to him!" she added. "Not that I'm
much afraid of that. You are anything but 'susceptible,' my dear!" she
laughed 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 an
awful calamity if we took a fancy to each other. We belong to the same
class of people, if not to the same set. He has enough money, and I'm
not 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 look
in her pale eyes, and she turned her face quickly to her daughter, and
quickly away again.
"Mother!" exclaimed the young girl, in surprise. "What in the world is
the matter? I was only laughing--besides--" she stopped, puzzled. "Tell
me the truth, mother," she continued suddenly. "You know about his
people--his father is some connection of--of your first husband--there's
some disgraceful story about them--tell me the truth. Why shouldn't I
know?"
"I hope you never will!" answered Mrs. Bowring, in a low voice that had
a sort of horror in it.
"Then there is something?" Clare herself turned a little paler as she
asked the question.
"Don't ask me--don't ask me!"
"Something disgraceful?" The young girl leaned forward as she spoke, and
her eyes were wide and anxious, forcing her mother to speak.
"Yes--no," faltered Mrs. Bowring. "Nothing to do with this
one--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 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 she 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 Paestum 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 walk?"
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.