Adam Johnstone's Son Read online

  CHAPTER XI

  Lady Johnstone was one of those perfectly frank and honest persons whotake no trouble to conceal their anxieties. From the fact that when shehad met him on the way up to the hotel Brook had been walking alone withClare Bowring, she had at once argued that a considerable intimacyexisted between the two. Her meeting with Clare's mother, and her suddenfancy for the elder woman, had momentarily allayed her fears, but theyrevived when it became clear to her that Brook sought every possibleopportunity of being alone with the young girl. She was an eminentlypractical woman, as has been said, which perhaps accounted for herhaving made a good husband out of such a man as Adam Johnstone had beenin his youth. She had never seen Brook devote himself to a young girlbefore now. She saw that Clare was good to look at, and she promptlyconcluded that Brook must be in love. The conclusion was perfectlycorrect, and Lady Johnstone soon grew very nervous. Brook was too youngto marry, and even if he had been old enough his mother thought that hemight have made a better choice. At all events he should not entanglehimself in an engagement with the girl; and she began systematically tointerfere with his attempts to be alone with her. Brook was as frank asherself. He charged her with trying to keep him from Clare, and she didnot deny that he was right. This led to a discussion on the third dayafter the Johnstones' arrival.

  "You mustn't make a fool of yourself, Brook, dear," said Lady Johnstone."You are not old enough to marry. Oh, I know, you are five-and-twenty,and ought to have come to years of discretion. But you haven't, dearboy. Don't forget that you are Adam Johnstone's son, and that you may beexpected to do all the things that he did before I married him. And hedid a good many things, you know. I'm devoted to your father, and if hewere in the room I should tell you just what I am telling you now.Before I married him he had about a thousand flirtations, and he hadbeen married too, and had gone off with an actress--a shocking affairaltogether! And his wife had divorced him. She must have been one ofthose horrible women who can't forgive, you know. Now, my dear boy, youaren't a bit better than your father, and that pretty Clare Bowringlooks as though she would never forgive anybody who did anything shedidn't like. Have you asked her to marry you?"

  "Good heavens, no!" cried Brook. "She wouldn't look at me!"

  "Wouldn't look at you? That's simply ridiculous, you know! She'd marryyou out of hand--unless she's perfectly idiotic. And she doesn't lookthat. Leave her alone, Brook. Talk to the mother. She's one of the mostdelightful women I ever met. She has a dear, quiet way with her--like avery thoroughbred white cat that's been ill and wants to be petted."

  "What extraordinary ideas you have, mother!" laughed Brook. "But ongeneral principles I don't see why I shouldn't marry Miss Bowring, ifshe'll have me. Why not? Her father was a gentleman, you like hermother, and as for herself--"

  "Oh, I've nothing against her. It's all against you, Brook dear. You aresuch a dreadful flirt, you know! You'll get tired of the poor girl andmake her miserable. I'm sure she isn't practical, as I am. The veryfirst time you look at some one else she'll get on a tragic horse andcharge the crockery--and there will be a most awful smash! It's not easyto manage you Johnstones when you think you are in love. I ought toknow!"

  "I say, mother," said Brook, "has anybody been telling you storiesabout me lately?"

  "Lately? Let me see. The last I heard was that Mrs. Crosby--the one youall call Lady Fan--was going to get a divorce so as to marry you."

  "Oh--you heard that, did you?"

  "Yes--everybody was talking about it and asking me whether it was true.It seems that she was with that party that brought you here. She leftthem at Naples, and came home at once by land, and they said she wasgiving out that she meant to marry you. I laughed, of course. But peoplewouldn't talk about you so much, dear boy, if there were not so much totalk about. I know that you would never do anything so idiotic as that,and if Mrs. Crosby chooses to flirt with you, that's her affair. She'solder than you, and knows more about it. But this is quite anotherthing. This is serious. You sha'n't make love to that nice girl, Brook.You sha'n't! I'll do something dreadful, if you do. I'll tell her allabout Mrs. Leo Cairngorm or somebody like that. But you sha'n't marryher and ruin her life."

  "You're going in for philanthropy, mother," said Brook, growing red."It's something new. You never made a fuss before."

  "No, of course not. You never were so foolish before, my dear boy. I'mnot bad myself, I believe. But you are, every one of you, and I love youall, and the only way to do anything with you is to let you run wild alittle first. It's the only practical, sensible way. And you've onlyjust begun--how in the world do you dare to think of marrying? Upon myword, it's too bad. I won't wait. I'll frighten the girl to death withstories about you, until she refuses to speak to you! But I've taken afancy to her mother, and you sha'n't make the child miserable. Yousha'n't, Brook. Oh, I've made up my mind! You sha'n't. I'll tell themother too. I'll frighten them all, till they can't bear the sight ofyou."

  Lady Johnstone was energetic, as well as original, in spite of herabnormal size, and Brook knew that she was quite capable of carrying outher threat, and more also.

  "I may be like my father in some ways," he answered. "But I'm a gooddeal like you too, mother. I'm rather apt to stick to what I like, youknow. Besides, I don't believe you would do anything of the kind. Andshe isn't inclined to like me, as it is. I believe she must have heardsome story or other. Don't make things any worse than they are."

  "Then don't lose your head and ask her to marry you after a fortnight'sacquaintance, Brook, because she'll accept you, and you will make herperfectly wretched."

  He saw that it was not always possible to argue with his mother, and hesaid nothing more. But he reflected upon her point of view, and he sawthat it was not altogether unjust, as she knew him. She could notpossibly understand that what he felt for Clare Bowring bore not theslightest resemblance to what he had felt for Lady Fan, if, indeed, hehad felt anything at all, which he considered doubtful now that it wasover, though he would have been angry enough at the suggestion a monthearlier. To tell the truth, he felt quite sure of himself at the presenttime, though all his sensations were more or less new to him. And hismother's sudden and rather eccentric opposition unexpectedlystrengthened his determination. He might laugh at what he called heroriginality, but he could not afford to jest at the prospect of hergiving Clare an account of his life. She was quite capable of it, andwould probably do it.

  These preoccupations, however, were as nothing compared with the mainpoint--the certainty that Clare would refuse him, if he offered himselfto her, and when he left his mother he was in a very undetermined stateof mind. If he should ask Clare to marry him now, she would refuse him.But if his mother interfered, it would be much worse a week hence.

  At last, as ill-luck would have it, he came upon her unexpectedly in thecorridor, as he came out, and they almost ran against each other.

  "Won't you come out for a bit?" he asked quickly and in a low voice.

  "Thanks--I have some letters to write," answered the young girl."Besides, it's much too hot. There isn't a breath of air."

  "Oh, it's not really hot, you know," said Brook, persuasively.

  "Then it's making a very good pretence!" laughed Clare.

  "It's ever so much cooler out of doors. If you'll only come out for oneminute, you'll see. Really--I'm in earnest."

  "But why should I go out if I don't want to?" asked the young girl.

  "Because I asked you to--"

  "Oh, that isn't a reason, you know," she laughed again.

  "Well, then, because you really would, if I hadn't asked you, and youonly refuse out of a spirit of opposition," suggested Brook.

  "Oh--do you think so? Do you think I generally do just the contrary ofwhat I'm asked to do?"

  "Of course, everybody knows that, who knows you." Brook seemed amusedat the idea.

  "If you think that--well, I'll come, just for a minute, if it's only toshow you that you are quite wrong."

  "Thanks, awfully. Sha'n't we
go for the little walk that was interruptedwhen my people came the other day?"

  "No--it's too hot, really. I'll walk as far as the end of the terraceand back--once. Do you mind telling me why you are so tremendouslyanxious to have me come out this very minute?"

  "I'll tell you--at least, I don't know that I can--wait till we areoutside. I should like to be out with you all the time, you know--and Ithought you might come, so I asked you."

  "You seem rather confused," said Clare gravely.

  "Well, you know," Brook answered as they walked along towards thedazzling green light that filled the door, "to tell the truth, betweenone thing and another--" He did not complete the sentence.

  "Yes?" said Clare, sweetly. "Between one thing and another--what wereyou going to say?"

  Brook did not answer as they went out into the hot, blossom-scented air,under the spreading vines.

  "Do you mean to say it's cooler here than indoors?" asked the younggirl in a tone of resignation.

  "Oh, it's much cooler! There's a breeze at the end of the walk."

  "The sea is like oil," observed Clare. "There isn't the least breath."

  "Well," said Brook, "it can't be really hot, because it's only the firstweek in June after all."

  "This isn't Scotland. It's positively boiling, and I wish I hadn't comeout. Beware of first impulses--they are always right!"

  But she glanced sideways at his face, for she knew that something was inthe air. She was not sure what to expect of him just then, but she knewthat there was something to expect. Her instinct told her that he meantto speak and to say more than he had yet said. It told her that he wasgoing to ask her to marry him, then and there, in the blazing noon,under the vines, but her modesty scouted the thought as savouring ofvanity. At all events she would prevent him from doing it if she could.

  "Lady Johnstone seems to like this place," she said, with a suddeneffort at conversation. "She says that she means to make all sorts ofexpeditions."

  "Of course she will," answered Brook, in a half-impatient tone. "But,please--I don't want to talk about my mother or the landscape. I reallydid want to speak to you, because I can't stand this sort of thing anylonger, you know."

  "What sort of thing?" asked Clare innocently, raising her eyes to his,as they reached the end of the walk.

  It was very hot and still. Not a breath stirred the young vine-leavesoverhead, and the scent of the last orange-blossoms hung in themotionless air. The heat rose quivering from the sea to southward, andthe water lay flat as a mirror under the glory of the first summer'sday.

  They stood still. Clare felt nervous, and tried to think of something tosay which might keep him from speaking, and destroy the effect of herlast question. But it was too late now. He was pale, for him, and hiseyes were very bright.

  "I can't live without you--it comes to that. Can't you see?"

  The short plain words shook oddly as they fell from his lips. The twostood quite still, each looking into the other's face. Brook grew palerstill, but the colour rose in Clare's cheeks. She tried to meet his eyessteadily, without feeling that he could control her.

  "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm very sorry."

  "You sha'n't say that," he answered, cutting her words with his, andsharply. "I'm tired of hearing it. I'm glad I love you, whatever you doto me; and you must get to like me. You must. I tell you I can't livewithout you."

  "But if I can't--" Clare tried to say.

  "You can--you must--you shall!" broke in Brook, hoarsely, his eyesgrowing brighter and fiercer. "I didn't know what it was to loveanybody, and now that I know, I can't live without it, and I won't."

  "But if--"

  "There is no 'if,'" he cried, in his low strong voice, fixing her eyeswith his. "There's no question of my going mad, or dying, or anythinghalf so weak, because I won't take no. Oh, you may say it a hundredtimes, but it won't help you. I tell you I love you. Do you understandwhat that means? I'm in God's own earnest. I'll give you my life, but Iwon't give you up. I'll take you somehow, whether you will or not, andI'll hide you somewhere, but you sha'n't get away from me as long as youlive."

  "You must be mad!" exclaimed the young girl, scarcely above her breath,half-frightened, and unable to loose her eyes from the fascination ofhis.

  "No, I'm not mad; only you've never seen any one in earnest before, andyou've been condemning me without evidence all along. But it must stopnow. You must tell me what it is, for I have a right to know. Tell mewhat it all is. I will know--I will. Look at me; you can't look awaytill you tell me."

  Clare felt his power, and felt that his eyes were dazzling her, and thatif she did not escape from them she must yield and tell him. She tried,and her eyelids quivered. Then she raised her hand to cover her owneyes, in a desperate attempt to keep her secret. He caught it and heldit, and still looked. She turned pale suddenly. Then her words camemechanically.

  "I was out there when you said 'good-bye' to Lady Fan. I heardeverything, from first to last."

  He started in surprise, and the colour rose suddenly to his face. He didnot look away yet, but Clare saw the blush of shame in his face, andfelt that his power diminished, while hers grew all at once, toovermaster him in turn.

  "It's scarcely a fortnight since you betrayed her," she said, slowly anddistinctly, "and you expect me to like you and to believe that you arein earnest."

  His shame turned quickly to anger.

  "So you listened!" he exclaimed.

  "Yes, I listened," she answered, and her words came easily, then, inself-defence--for she had thought of it all very often. "I didn't knowwho you were. My mother and I had been sitting beside the cross in theshadow of the cave, and she went in to finish a letter, leaving methere. Then you two came out talking. Before I knew what was happeningyou had said too much. I felt that if I had been in Lady Fan's place Iwould far rather never know that a stranger was listening. So I satstill, and I could not help hearing. How was I to know that you meant tostay here until I heard you say so to her? And I heard everything. Youare ashamed now that you know that I know. Do you wonder that I dislikedyou from the first?"

  "I don't see why you should," answered Brook stubbornly. "If you do--youdo. That doesn't change matters--"

  "You betrayed her!" cried Clare indignantly. "You forgot that I heardall you said--how you promised to marry her if she could get a divorce.It was horrible, and I never dreamt of such things, but I heard it. Andthen you were tired of her, I suppose, and you changed your mind, andcalmly told her that it was all a mistake. Do you expect any woman, whohas seen another treated in that way, to forget? Oh, I saw her face, andI heard her sob. You broke her heart for your amusement. And it was onlya fortnight ago!"

  She had the upper hand now, and she turned from him with a lastscornful glance, and looked over the low wall at the sea, wondering howhe could have held her with his eyes a moment earlier. Brook stoodmotionless beside her, and there was silence. He might have found muchin self-defence, but there was not one word of it which he could tellher. Perhaps she might find out some day what sort of person Lady Fanwas, but his own lips were closed. That was his view of what honourmeant.

  Clare felt that her breath came quickly, and that the colour was deep inher cheeks as she gazed at the flat, hot sea. For a moment she felt awoman's enormous satisfaction in being absolutely unanswerable. Then,all at once, she had a strong sensation of sickness, and a quick painshot sharply through her just below the heart. She steadied herself bythe wall with her hands, and shut her lips tightly.

  She had refused him as well as accused him. He would go away in a fewmoments, and never try to be alone with her again. Perhaps he wouldleave Amalfi that very day. It was impossible that she should reallycare for him, and yet, if she did not care, she would not ask the nextquestion. Then he spoke to her. His voice was changed and very quietnow.

  "I'm sorry you heard all that," he said. "I don't wonder that you'vegot a bad opinion of me, and I suppose I can't say anything just now tomake you change it. You heard, and you thi
nk you have a right to judge.Perhaps I shouldn't even say this--you heard me then, and you have heardme now. There's a difference, you'll admit. But all that you heard then,and all that you have told me now, can't change the truth, and you can'tmake me love you less, whatever you do. I don't believe I'm that sort ofman."

  "I should have thought you were," said Clare bitterly, and regrettingthe words as soon as they were spoken.

  "It's natural that you should think so. At the same time, it doesn'tfollow that because a man doesn't love one woman he can't possibly loveanother."

  "That's simply brutal!" exclaimed the young girl, angry with himunreasonably because the argument was good.

  "It's true, at all events. I didn't love Mrs. Crosby, and I told her so.You may think me a brute if you like, but you heard me say it, if youheard anything, so I suppose I may quote myself. I do love you, and Ihave told you so--the fact that I can't say it in choice languagedoesn't make it a lie. I'm not a man in a book, and I'm in earnest."

  "Please stop," said Clare, as she heard the hoarse strength coming backin his voice.

  "Yes--I know. I've said it before, and you don't care to hear it again.You can't kill it by making me hold my tongue, you know. It only makesit worse. You'll see that I'm in earnest in time--then you'll changeyour mind. But I can't change mine. I can't live without you, whateveryou may think of me now."

  It was a strange wooing, very unlike anything she had ever dreamt of, ifshe had allowed herself to dream of such things. She asked herselfwhether this could be the same man who had calmly and cynically toldLady Fan that he did not love her and could not think of marrying her.He had been cool and quiet enough then. That gave strength to theargument he used now. She had seen him with another woman, and now shesaw him with herself and heard him. She was surprised and almost takenfrom her feet by his rough vehemence. He surely did not speak as a manchoosing his words, certainly not as one trying to produce an effect.But then, on that evening at the Acropolis--the thought of that scenepursued her--he had doubtless spoken just as roughly and vehemently toLady Fan, and had seemed just as much in earnest. And suddenly Lady Fanwas hateful to her, and she almost ceased to pity her at all. But forLady Fan--well, it might have been different. She should not have blamedherself for liking him, for loving him perhaps, and his words would havehad another ring.

  He still stood beside her, watching her, and she was afraid to turn tohim lest he should see something in her face which she meant to hide.But she could speak quietly enough, resting her hands on the wall andlooking out to sea. It would be best to be a little formal, she thought.The sound of his own name spoken distinctly and coldly would perhapswarn him not to go too far.

  "Mr. Johnstone," she said, steadying her voice, "this can't go on. Inever meant to tell you what I knew, but you have forced me to it. Idon't love you--I don't like a man who can do such things, and I nevercould. And I can't let you talk to me in this way any more. If we mustmeet, you must behave just as usual. If you can't, I shall persuade mymother to go away at once."

  "I shall follow you," said Brook. "I told you so the other day. Youcan't possibly go to any place where I can't go too."

  "Do you mean to persecute me, Mr. Johnstone?" she asked.

  "I love you."

  "I hate you!"

  "Yes, but you won't always. Even if you do, I shall always love you justas much."

  Her eyes fell before his.

  "Do you mean to say that you can really love a woman who hates you?" sheasked, looking at one of her hands as it rested on the wall.

  "Of course. Why not? What has that to do with it?"

  The question was asked so simply and with such honest surprise thatClare looked up again. He was smiling a little sadly.

  "But--I don't understand--" she hesitated.

  "Do you think it's like a bargain?" he asked quietly. "Do you think it'sa matter of exchange--'I will love you if you'll love me'? Oh no! It'snot that. I can't help it. I'm not my own master. I've got to love you,whether I like it or not. But since I do--well, I've said the rest, andI won't repeat it. I've told you that I'm in earnest, and you haven'tbelieved me. I've told you that I love you, and you won't even believethat--"

  "No--I can believe that, well enough, now. You do to-day, perhaps. Atleast you think you do."

  "Well--you don't believe it, then. What's the use of repeating it? If Icould talk well, it would be different, but I'm not much of a talker,at best, and just now I can't put two words together. But I--I mean lotsof things that I can't say, and perhaps wouldn't say, you know. Atleast, not just now."

  He turned from her and began to walk up and down across the narrowterrace, towards her and away from her, his hands in his pockets, andhis head a little bent. She watched him in silence for some time.Perhaps if she had hated him as much as she said that she did, she wouldhave left him then and gone into the house. Something, good or evil,tempted her to speak.

  "What do you mean, that you wouldn't say now?" she asked.

  "I don't know," he answered gruffly, still walking up and down, tensteps each way. "Don't ask me--I told you one thing. I shall follow youwherever you go."

  "And then?" asked Clare, still prompted by some genius, good or bad.

  "And then?" Brook stopped and stared at her rather wildly. "And then? IfI can't get you in any other way--well, I'll take you, that's all! It'snot a very pretty thing to say, is it?"

  "It doesn't sound a very probable thing to do, either," answered Clare."I'm afraid you are out of your mind, Mr. Johnstone."

  "You've driven most things out of it since I loved you," answered Brook,beginning to walk again. "You've made me say things that I shouldn'thave dreamed of saying to any woman, much less to you. And you've mademe think of doing things that looked perfectly mad a week ago." Hestopped before her. "Can't you see? Can't you understand? Can't you feelhow I love you?"

  "Don't--please don't!" she said, beginning to be frightened at hismanner again.

  "Don't what? Don't love you? Don't live, then--don't exist--don'tanything! What would it all matter, if I didn't love you? Meanwhile, Ido, and by the--no! What's the use of talking? You might laugh. You'dmake a fool of me, if you hadn't killed the fool out of me with too muchearnest--and what's left can't talk, though it can do something betterworth while than a lot of talking."

  Clare began to think that the heat had hurt his head. And all the time,in a secret, shame-faced way, she was listening to his incoherentsentences and rough exclamations, and remembering them one by one, andevery one. And she looked at his pale face, and saw the queer light inhis blue eyes, and the squaring of his jaw--and then and long afterwardsthe whole picture, with its memory of words, hot, broken, and confused,meant earnest love in her thoughts. No man in his senses, wishing toplay a part and produce an impression upon a woman, would have acted ashe did, and she knew it. It was the rough, real thing--the raw strengthof an honest man's uncontrolled passion that she saw--and it told hermore of love in a few minutes than all she had heard or read in herwhole life. But while it was before her, alive and throbbing andincoherent of speech, it frightened her.

  "Come," she said nervously, "we mustn't stay out here any longer,talking in this way."

  He stopped again, close before her, and his eyes looked dangerous for aninstant. Then he straightened himself, and seemed to swallow somethingwith an effort.

  "All right," he answered. "I don't want to keep you out here in theheat."

  He faced about, and they walked slowly towards the house. When theyreached the door he stood aside. She saw that he did not mean to go in,and she paused an instant on the threshold, looked at him gravely, andnodded before she entered. Again he bent his head, and said nothing. Sheleft him standing there, and went straight to her room.

  Then she sat down before a little table on which she wrote her letters,near the window, and she tried to think. But it was not easy, andeverything was terribly confused. She rested her elbows upon the smalldesk and pressed her fingers to her eyes, as though to drive away
thesight that would come back. Then she dropped her hands suddenly andopened her eyes wide, and stared at the wall-paper before her. And itcame back very vividly between her and the white plaster, and she heardhis voice again--but she was smiling now.

  She started violently, for she felt two hands laid unexpectedly upon hershoulders, and some one kissed her hair. She had not heard her mother'sfootstep, nor the opening and shutting of the door, nor anything butBrook Johnstone's voice.

  "What is it, my darling?" asked the elder woman, bending down over herdaughter's shoulder. "Has anything happened?"

  Clare hesitated a moment, and then spoke, for the habit of herconfidence was strong. "He has asked me to marry him, mother--"

  In her turn Mrs. Bowring started, and then rested one hand on the table.

  "You? You?" she repeated, in a low and troubled voice. "You marry AdamJohnstone's son?"

  "No, mother--never," answered the young girl.

  "Thank God!"

  And Mrs. Bowring sank into a chair, shivering as though she were cold.