Adam Johnstone's Son Read online

  CHAPTER X

  Clare went directly to her mother's room. She had hardly spoken againduring the few minutes while she had necessarily remained with theJohnstones, climbing the hill back to the hotel. At the door she hadstood aside to let Lady Johnstone go in, Sir Adam had followed his wife,and Brook had lingered, doubtless hoping to exchange a few words morewith Clare. But she was preoccupied, and had not vouchsafed him aglance.

  "They have come," she said, as she closed Mrs. Bowring's door behindher.

  Her mother was seated by the open window, her hands lying idly in herlap, her face turned away, as Clare entered. She started slightly, andlooked 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 asmile.

  "He said so--yes. His voice was cold. But when he first heard my nameand asked about my father his face softened."

  "His face softened," repeated Mrs. Bowring to herself, just above awhisper, 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 luncheonin 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.

  "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 couldhelp 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 youcannot know it--you can't be supposed to know it. I wish I could havekept my secret better--but I broke down when you told me about theyacht. You can only help me in one way--don't ask me questions, dear. Itwould be harder for me, if you knew--indeed it would. Be natural. Youneed 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 atime. But don't be suddenly cold and rude to their son. There's nothingagainst--I mean, it has nothing to do with him. You mustn't think ithas, you know. Be natural--be yourself."

  "It's not altogether easy to be natural under the circumstances," Clareanswered, with some truth, and a great deal of repressed curiosity whichshe did her best to hide away altogether for her mother's sake.

  At luncheon the Johnstones were all three placed on the opposite side ofthe table, and Brook was no longer Clare's neighbour. The Bowrings werealready in their places when the three entered, Sir Adam giving his armto his wife, who seemed to need help in walking, or at all events to beglad of it. Brook followed at a little distance, and Clare saw that hewas looking at her regretfully, as though he wished himself at her sideagain. 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-fashionedcourtesy, 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 eachother. Then his expression changed and softened, as it had when he hadfirst met Clare, but Mrs. Bowring's face grew hard and pale. He did notsit down, but to his wife's surprise walked quietly all round the end ofthe table and up the other side to where Mrs. Bowring sat. She knew thathe was coming, and she turned a little to meet his hand. The English oldmaids 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, asthough speaking with an effort. "Brook says that you have been very goodto him, and so I want to thank you at once. Yes--this is yourdaughter--Brook introduced me. Excuse me--I'll get round to my placeagain. 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 meintroduce you to my old friend Mrs. Bowring, the mother of this younglady whom you have already met," he added, glancing down at Clare'sflaxen head.

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

  Clare thought that she heard a faint sigh of relief escape her mother'slips just then. Sir Adam's heavy steps echoed upon the tile floor, as hemarched all round the table again to his seat. The table itself wasnarrow, 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 onhis side, as Clare was on hers.

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

  "It's a beautiful place when you get here," she said. "Isn't it? Theview from my window is heavenly! But to get here! Dear me! I was carriedup by two men, you know, and I thought they would have died. I hopethey are enjoying their dinner, poor fellows! I'm sure they nevercarried such a load before!"

  And she laughed, with a sort of frank, half self-commiserating amusementat 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 meanto go everywhere, while I'm here--up all the hills, and down all thevalleys. I always see everything when I come to a new place. It'spleasant 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, turningher large round face slowly to her husband.

  "Certainly, certainly," answered Sir Adam, nodding gravely, as hedissected the bones out of a fried sardine.

  "You're awfully good about it," said Lady Johnstone, in thanks forunlimited porters to come.

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

  "You knew my husband a long time ago, then!" she began, again lookingacross 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 knowthat 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 tomeet 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'mperfectly mad about pictures, you know. Perfectly mad!"

  The vision of a woman cast in Lady Johnstone's proportions and perfectlymad might have provoked a smile on Mrs. Bowring's face at any othertime.

  "I suppose you buy pictures, as well as admire them," she said, glad ofthe 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, youare hardly ever sure of getting an original, unless there are all thedocuments--and that means thousands, literally thousands of pounds. Butnow and then I kick over the traces, you know."

  Clare could not help smili
ng at the simile, and bent down her head.Brook was watching her, he understood and was annoyed, for he loved hismother 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, youwould certainly never get back to England."

  It was impossible not to laugh. Lady Johnstone did not look at all thesort of person to say witty things, though she was the very incarnationof good humour--except when she thought that Brook was in danger ofbeing married. And every one laughed, Sir Adam first, then Brook, andthen the Bowrings. The effect was good. Lady Johnstone was reallyafflicted with curiosity, and her first questions to Mrs. Bowring hadbeen asked purely out of a wish to make advances. She was stronglyattracted by the quiet, pale face, with its excessive refinement anddelicately traced lines of suffering. She felt that the woman had takenlife too hard, and it was her instinct to comfort her, and warm her andtake care of her, from the first. Brook understood and rejoiced, for heknew his mother's tenacity about her first impressions, and he wished tohave her on his side.

  After that the ice was broken and the conversation did not flag. SirAdam looked at Mrs. Bowring from time to time with an expression ofuncertainty which sat strangely on his determined features, and wheneverany new subject was broached he watched her uneasily until she hadspoken. But Mrs. Bowring rarely returned his glances, and her eyes neverlingered on his face even when she was speaking to him. Clare, for herpart, joined in the conversation, and wondered and waited. Her theorywas strengthened by what she saw. Clearly Sir Adam felt uncomfortable inher mother's presence; therefore he had injured her in some way, anddoubted whether she had ever forgiven him. But to the girl's quickinstinct it was clear that he did not stand to Mrs. Bowring only in theposition 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 easilymistake the signs of such bygone intercourse.

  When they rose, Mrs. Bowring walked slowly, on her side of the table, soas not to reach the door before Lady Johnstone, who could not move fastunder 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 fewminutes later she was enthroned in safety, her husband on one side ofher and Mrs. Bowring on the other, all facing the sea.

  "It's too perfect for words!" she exclaimed, in solid and peacefulsatisfaction. "Adam, isn't it a dream? You thin people don't know hownice 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 atrest 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 somethingunusual in the situation, to say the least of it. At last they stoppedat the end farthest away from the others.

  "I had no idea that my father had known your mother long ago," saidBrook suddenly. "Had you?"

  "Yes--of late," answered Clare. "You see my mother wasn't sure, untilyou told me his first name," she hastened to add.

  "Oh--I see. Of course. Stupid of me not to try and bring it into theconversation sooner, wasn't it? But it seems to have been ever so longago. Don't you think so?"

  "Yes. Ever so long ago."

  "When they were quite young, I suppose. Your mother must have beenperfectly beautiful when she was young. I dare say my father was madlyin 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 Brookquickly. "I don't see that there's any harm in it. There's no reason whya young man as he was shouldn't have been desperately in love with abeautiful young girl, is there?"

  "None whatever," answered Clare. "I was only thinking--it's rather anodd 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 oldthings, my aunts are, too. No, he never had any brother. Why do youask?"

  "Nothing--it's a mere coincidence. Did I ever tell you that my motherwas married twice? My father was her second husband. The first had yourname."

  "Johnstone, with an E on the end of it?"

  "Yes--with an E."

  "Gad! that's funny!" exclaimed Brook. "Some connection, I dare say. Thenwe 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, buther face was thoughtful. "Still, it is odd that she should have knownyour father well, and should have married a man of the same name--withthe 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 anothercoincidence too, that my father should have been married twice, justlike 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 attentionto them, but she had grown restless as soon as she had seen that theystood still at a distance to talk, and her bright blue eyes turnedtowards them again and again, with sudden motherly anxiety. At last shecould bear it no longer.

  "Brook!" she cried. "Brook, my dear boy!" Brook and Clare walked backtowards the little group.

  "Brook, dear," said Lady Johnstone. "Please come and tell me the namesof all the mountains and places we see from here. You know, I alwayswant 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 andstanding before her.

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

  "Take our chairs," said Sir Adam to Clare and Brook. "We are going towalk 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 theyhad gone a little distance.

  "No."

  "We can't stand there and talk. Where can we go? Isn't there a quietplace somewhere?"

  "Do you want to talk to me?" asked Mrs. Bowring, looking straight beforeher.

  "Yes, please," answered Sir Adam, almost sharply, but still in a lowtone. "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 therocks far out below. "It curls round like a shell, you know. Conca meansa sea-shell, I think. It seems to be a great place for fishing, forthere are always little boats about it in fine weather."

  "I remember," replied Sir Adam. "I was here thirty years ago. It hasn'tchanged much. Are there still those little paper-mills in the valley onthe way to Ravello? They used to be very primitive."

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

  "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 haveto 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, liketwo people who are going to do something dangerous and disagreeabletogether. The
y came out upon the platform before the deep recess of therocks in which stood the black cross. There was nobody there.

  "We shall not be disturbed out here," said Mrs. Bowring, quietly. "Thepeople in the hotel go to their rooms after luncheon. We will sit downthere by the cross, if you don't mind--I'm not so strong as I used tobe, you know."

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

  A long silence followed. Once or twice Sir Adam shifted his feetuneasily, 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'twant you to say anything, and I don't know what you can have to say. Asfor my being here, it's very simple. If I had known that Brook Johnstonewas your son before he had made our acquaintance, and that you werecoming here, I should have gone away at once. As soon as I knew him Isuspected who he was. You must know that he is like you as you used tobe--except your eyes. Then I said to myself that he would tell you thathe had met us, and that you would of course think that I had been afraidto meet you. I'm not. So I stayed. I don't know whether I did right orwrong. 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, turninghis eyes slowly to her face.

  "That depends upon how you act. It might have been better to behave asthough we had never met, and to let your son introduce you to me as heintroduced you to Clare. We might have started upon a more formalfooting, then. You have chosen to say that we are old friends. It's anodd expression to use--but let it stand. I won't quarrel with it. Itdoes well enough. As for the position, it's not pleasant for me, but itmust be worse for you. There's not much to choose. But I don't want youto think that I expect you to talk about old times unless you like. Ifyou have anything which you wish to say, I'll hear it all withoutinterrupting you. But I do wish you to believe that I won't do anythingnor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy withyou. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what shewas 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 unlessshe 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, andall about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don't want to telllies, you know."

  "I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That's true enough. You werechristened 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 westand, you see."

  "No--only that we have met before. I don't know what she may suspect.And your son?"

  "Oh, I suppose he knows. Somebody must have told him."

  "He doesn't know who I am, though," said Mrs. Bowring, with conviction."He seems to be more like his mother than like you. He couldn't concealanything long."

  "I wasn't particularly good at that either, as it turned out," said SirAdam, gravely.

  "No, thank God!"

  "Do you think it's something to be thankful for? I don't. Things mighthave gone better afterwards--"

  "Afterwards!" The suffering of the woman's life was in the tone and inher eyes.

  "Yes, afterwards. I'm an old man, Lucy, and I've seen a great manythings since you and I parted, and a great many people. I was badenough, but I've seen worse men since, who have had another chance andhave turned out well."

  "Their wives did not love them. I am almost old, too. I loved you, Adam.It was a bad hurt you gave me, and the wound never healed. I married--Ihad to marry. He was an honest gentleman. Then he was killed. That hurttoo, for I was very fond of him--but it did not hurt as the other did.Nothing could."

  Her voice shook, and she turned away her face. At least, he should notsee that her lip trembled.

  "I didn't think you cared," said Sir Adam, and his own voice was notvery steady.

  She turned upon him almost fiercely, and there was a blue light in herfaded eyes.

  "I! You thought I didn't care? You've no right to say that--it's wickedof you, and it's cruel. Did you think I married you for your money,Adam? And if I had--should I have given it up to be divorced because yougave jewels to an actress? I loved you, and I wanted your love, ornothing. You couldn't be faithful--commonly, decently faithful, for oneyear--and I got myself free from you, because I would not be your wife,nor eat your bread, nor touch your hand, if you couldn't love me. Don'tsay that you ever loved me, except my face. We hadn't been divorced ayear when you married again. Don't say that you loved me! You loved yourwife--your second wife--perhaps. I hope so. I hope you love her now--andI dare say you do, for she looks happy--but don't say that you everloved me--just long enough to marry me and betray me!"

  "You're hard, Lucy. You're as hard as ever you were twenty years ago,"said Adam Johnstone.

  As he leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, he passed his brownhand across his eyes, and then stared vaguely at the white walls of theold hotel beyond the platform.

  "But you know that I'm right," answered Mrs. Bowring. "Perhaps I'mhard, too. I'm sorry. You said that you had been mad, I remember--Idon't like to think of all you said, but you said that. And I rememberthinking that I had been much more mad than you, to have married you,but that I should soon be really mad--raving mad--if I remained yourwife. I couldn't. I should have died. Afterwards I thought it would havebeen better if I had died then. But I lived through it. Then, after thedeath of my old aunt, I was alone. What was I to do? I was poor andlonely, and a divorced woman, though the right had been on my side.Richard Bowring knew all about it, and I married him. I did not love youany more, then, but I told him the truth when I told him that I couldnever love any one again. He was satisfied--so we were married."

  "I don't blame you," said Sir Adam.

  "Blame me! No--it would hardly be for you to blame me, if I could makeanything of the shreds of my life which I had saved from yours. For thatmatter--you were free too. It was soon done, but why should I blame youfor that? You were free--by the law--to go where you pleased, to loveagain, and to marry at once. You did. Oh no! I don't blame you forthat!"

  Both were silent for some time. But Mrs. Bowring's eyes still had anindignant light in them, and her fingers twitched nervously from time totime. Sir Adam stared stolidly at the white wall, without looking at hisformer wife.

  "I've been talking about myself," she said at last. "I didn't mean to,for I need no justification. When you said that you wanted to saysomething, I brought you here so that we could be alone. What was it? Ishould have let you speak first."

  "It was this." He paused, as though choosing his words. "Well, I don'tknow," he continued presently. "You've been saying a good many thingsabout me that I would have said myself. I've not denied them, have I?Well, it's this. I wanted to see you for years, and now we've met. Wemay not meet again, Lucy, though I dare say we may live a long time. Iwish we could, though. But of course you don't care to see me. I wasyour husband once, and I behaved like a brute to you. You wouldn't wantme for a friend now that I am old."

  He waited, but she said nothing.

  "Of course you wouldn't," he continued. "I shouldn't, in your place. Oh,I know! If I were dying or starving, or very unhappy, you would becapable of doing anything for me, out of sheer goodness. You're onlyjust to people who aren't suffering. You were always like that in theold days. It's so much the worse for us. I have nothing about me toexcite your pity. I'm strong, I'm well, I'm very rich, I'm relativelyhappy. I don't know how much I cared for my wife when I married her, butshe has been a good wife, and I'm very fond of
her now, in my own way.It wasn't a good action, I admit, to marry her at all. She was thebeauty of her year and the best match of the season, and I was justdivorced, and every one's hand was against me. I thought I would showthem what I could do, winged as I was, and I got her. No; it wasn't athing to be proud of. But somehow we hit it off, and she stuck to me,and I grew fond of her because she did, and here we are as you see us,and Brook is a fine fellow, and likes me. I like him too. He's honestand faithful, like his mother. There's no justice and no logic in thisworld, Lucy. I was a good-for-nothing in the old days. Circumstanceshave made me decently good, and a pretty happy man besides, as men go. Icouldn't ask for any pity if I tried."

  "No; you're not to be pitied. I'm glad you're happy. I don't wish youany harm."

  "You might, and I shouldn't blame you. But all that isn't what I wishedto say. I'm getting old, and we may not meet any more after this. Ifyou wish me to go away, I'll go. We'll leave the place tomorrow."

  "No. Why should you? It's a strange situation, as we were to-day attable. You with your wife beside, and your divorced wife opposite you,and only you and I knowing it. I suppose you think, somehow--I don'tknow--that I might be jealous of your wife. But twenty-seven years makea difference, Adam. It's half a lifetime. It's so utterly past that Isha'n't realise it. If you like to stay, then stay. No harm can come ofit, and that was so very long ago. Is that what you want to say?"

  "No." He hesitated. "I want you to say that you forgive me," he said, ina quick, hoarse voice.

  His keen dark eyes turned quickly to her face, and he saw how very paleshe was, and how the shadows had deepened under her eyes, and herfingers twitched nervously as they clasped one another in her lap.

  "I suppose you think I'm sentimental," he said, looking at her. "PerhapsI am; but it would mean a good deal to me if you would just say it."

  There was something pathetic in the appeal, and something young too, inspite of his grey beard and furrowed face. Still Mrs. Bowring saidnothing. It meant almost too much to her, even after twenty-sevenyears. This old man had taken her, an innocent young girl, had marriedher, had betrayed her while she dearly loved him, and had blasted herlife at the beginning. Even now it was hard to forgive. The sufferingwas not old, and the sight of his face had touched the quick again.Barely ten minutes had passed since the pain had almost wrung the tearsfrom her.

  "You can't," said the old man, suddenly. "I see it. It's too much toask, I suppose, and I've never done anything to deserve it."

  The pale face grew paler, but the hands were still, and grasped eachother, firm and cold. The lips moved, but no sound came. Then a moment,and they moved again.

  "You're mistaken, Adam. I do forgive you."

  He caught the two hands in his, and his face shivered.

  "God bless you, dear," he tried to say, and he kissed the hands twice.

  When Mrs. Bowring looked up he was sitting beside her, just as before;but his face was terribly drawn, and strange, and a great tear hadtrickled down the furrowed brown cheek into the grey beard.