Adam Johnstone's Son

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER V

  Brook Johnstone's people did not come on the next day, nor on the dayafter that, but he expressed no surprise at the delay, and did not againsay that it was a bore to have to wait for them. Meanwhile he spent agreat deal of his time with the Bowrings, and the acquaintance ripenedquickly towards intimacy, without passing near friendship, as suchacquaintance sometimes will, when it springs up suddenly in the shallowground of an out-of-the-way hotel on the Continent.

  "For Heaven's sake don't let that man fall in love with you, Clare!"said Mrs. Bowring one morning, with what seemed unnecessary vehemence.

  Clare's lip curled scornfully as she thought of poor Lady Fan.

  "There isn't the slightest danger of that!" she answered. "Any more thanthere is of my falling in love with him," she added.

  "Are you sure of that?" asked her mother. "You seem to like him.Besides, he is very nice, and very good-looking."

  "Oh yes--of course he is. But one doesn't necessarily fall in love withevery nice and good-looking man one meets."

  Thereupon Clare cut the conversation short by going off to her own room.She had been expecting for some time that her mother would make someremark about the growing intimacy with young Johnstone. To tell thetruth, Mrs. Bowring had not the slightest ground for anxiety in anyprevious attachment of her daughter. She was beginning to wonder whetherClare would ever show any preference for any man.

  But she did not at all wish to marry her at present, for she felt thatlife without the girl would be unbearably lonely. On the other hand,Clare had a right to marry. They were poor. A part of their littleincome was the pension that Mrs. Bowring had been fortunate enough toget as the widow of an officer killed in action, but that would cease ather death, as poor Captain Bowring's allowance from his family hadceased at his death. The family had objected to the marriage from thefirst, and refused to do anything for his child after he was gone. Itwould go hard with Clare if she were left alone in the world with whather mother could leave her. On the other hand, that little, or theprospect of it, was quite safe, and would make a great difference toher, as a married woman. The two lived on it, with economy. Clare couldcertainly dress very well on it if she married a rich man, but she couldas certainly not afford to marry a poor one.

  As for this young Johnstone, he had not volunteered much informationabout himself, and, though Mrs. Bowring sometimes asked him questions,she was extremely careful not to ask any which could be taken in thenature of an inquiry as to his prospects in life, merely because thatmight possibly suggest to him that she was thinking of her daughter. Andwhen an Englishman is reticent in such matters, it is utterly impossibleto guess whether he be a millionaire or a penniless younger son.Johnstone never spoke of money, in any connection. He never said that hecould afford one thing or could not afford another. He talked a gooddeal of shooting and sport, but never hinted that his father had anyland. He never mentioned a family place in the country, nor anything ofthe sort. He did not even tell the Bowrings to whom the yacht belongedin which he had come, though he frequently alluded to things which hadbeen said and done by the party during a two months' cruise, chiefly ineastern waters.

  The Bowrings were quite as reticent about themselves, and each respectedthe other's silence. Nevertheless they grew intimate, scarcely knowinghow the intimacy developed. That is to say, they very quickly becameaccustomed, all three, to one another's society. If Johnstone was out ofthe hotel first, of an afternoon, he moped about with his pipe in anobjectless way, as though he had lost something, until the Bowrings cameout. If he was writing letters and they appeared first, they talked indetached phrases and looked often towards the door, until he came andsat down beside them.

  On the third evening, at dinner, he seemed very much amused atsomething, and then, as though he could not keep the joke to himself, hetold his companions that he had received a telegram from his father, inanswer to one of his own, informing him that he had made a mistake of awhole fortnight in the date, and must amuse himself as he pleased in theinterval.

  "Just like me!" he observed. "I got the letter in Smyrna or somewhere--Iforget--and I managed to lose it before I had read it through. But Ithought I had the date all right. I'm glad, at all events. I was tiredof those good people, and it's ever so much pleasanter here."

  Clare's gentle mouth hardened suddenly as she thought of Lady Fan.Johnstone had been thoroughly tired of her. That was what he meant whenhe spoke of "those good people."

  "You get tired of people easily, don't you?" she inquired coldly.

  "Oh no--not always," answered Johnstone.

  By this time he was growing used to her sudden changes of manner and tothe occasional scornful speeches she made. He could not understand themin the least, as may be imagined, and having considerable experience heset them down to the score of a certain girlish shyness, which showeditself in no other way. He had known women whose shyness manifesteditself in saying disagreeable things for which they were sometimes sorryafterwards.

  "No," he added reflectively. "I don't think I'm a very fickle person."

  Clare turned upon him the terrible innocence of her clear blue eyes. Shethought she knew the truth about him too, and that he could not look herin the face. But she was mistaken. He met her glance fearlessly andquietly, with a frank smile and a little wonder at its fixed scrutiny.She would not look away, rude though she might seem, nor be stared outof countenance by a man whom she believed to be false and untrue. Buthis eyes were very bright, and in a few seconds they began to dazzleher, and she felt her eyelids trembling violently. It was a newsensation, and a very unpleasant one. It seemed to her that the man hadsuddenly got some power over her. She made a strong effort and turnedaway her face, and again she blushed with annoyance.

  "I beg your pardon," Johnstone said quickly, in a very low voice. "Ididn't mean to be so rude."

  Clare said nothing as she sat beside him, but she looked at the oppositewall, and her hand made an impatient little gesture as the fingers layon the edge of the table. Possibly, if her mother had not been on herother side, she might have answered him. As it was, she felt that shecould not speak just then. She was very much disturbed, as thoughsomething new and totally unknown had got hold of her. It was not onlythat she hated the man for his heartlessness, while she felt that he hadsome sort of influence over her, which was more than mere attraction.There was something beyond, deep down in her heart, which was nameless,and painful, but which she somehow felt that she wanted. And aside fromit all, she was angry with him for having stared her out of countenance,forgetting that when she had turned upon him she had meant to do thesame by him, feeling quite sure that he could not look her in the face.

  They spoke little during the remainder of the meal, for Clare was quitewilling to show that she was angry, though she had little right to be.After all, she had looked at him, and he had looked at her. After dinnershe disappeared, and was not seen during the remainder of the evening.

  When she was alone, however, she went over the whole matterthoughtfully, and she made up her mind that she had been hasty. For shewas naturally just. She said to herself that she had no claim to theman's secrets, which she had learned in a way of which she was not atall proud; and that if he could keep his own counsel, he, on his side,had a right to do so. The fact that she knew him to be heartless andfaithless by no means implied that he was also indiscreet, though whenan individual has done anything which we think bad we easily supposethat he may do every other bad thing imaginable. Johnstone's discretion,at least, was admirable, now that she thought of it. His bright eyes andfrank look would have disarmed any suspicion short of the certainty shepossessed. There had not been the least contraction of the lids, thesmallest change in the expression of his mouth, not the faintestincrease of colour in his young face.

  So much the worse, thought the young girl suddenly. He was not only bad.He was also an accomplished actor. No doubt his eyes had been as steadyand bright and his whole face as truthful when he had made love to LadyFan at sunse
t on the Acropolis. Somehow, the allusion to that scene hadproduced a vivid impression on Clare's mind, and she often found herselfwondering what he had said, and how he had looked just then.

  Her resentment against him increased as she thought it all over, andagain she felt a longing to be cruel to him, and to make him suffer justwhat he had made Lady Fan endure.

  Then she was suddenly and unexpectedly overcome by a shamed sense of herinability to accomplish any such act of justice. It was as though shehad already tried, and had failed, and he had laughed in her face andturned away. It seemed to her that there could be nothing in her whichcould appeal to such a man. There was Lady Fan, much older, with plentyof experience, doubtless; and she had been deceived, and betrayed, andabandoned, before the young girl's very eyes. What chance could such amere girl possibly have? It was folly, and moreover it was wicked of herto think of such things. She would be willingly lowering herself to hislevel, trying to do the very thing which she despised and hated in him,trying to outwit him, to out-deceive him, to out-betray him. One sideof her nature, at least, revolted against any such scheme. Besides, shecould never do it.

  She was not a great beauty; she was not extraordinarily clever--notclever at all, she said to herself in her sudden fit of humility; shehad no "experience." That last word means a good deal more to most younggirls than they can find in it after life's illogical surprises havetaught them the terrible power of chance and mood and impulse.

  She glanced at her face in the mirror, and looked away. Then she glancedagain. The third time she turned to the glass she began to examine herfeatures in detail. Lady Fan was a fair woman, too. But, without vanity,she had to admit that she was much better-looking than Lady Fan. She wasalso much younger and fresher, which should be an advantage, shethought. She wished that her hair were golden instead of flaxen; thather eyes were dark instead of blue; that her cheeks were not so thin,and her throat a shade less slender. Nevertheless, she would have beenwilling to stand any comparison with the little lady in white. Ofcourse, compared with the famous beauties, some of whom she had seen,she was scarcely worth a glance. Doubtless, Brook Johnstone knew themall.

  Then she gazed into her own eyes. She did not know that a woman, alone,may look into her own eyes and blush and turn away. She looked long andsteadily, and quite quietly. After all, they looked dark, for the pupilswere very large and the blue iris was of that deep colour which bordersupon violet. There was something a little unusual in them, too, thoughshe could not quite make out what it was. Why did not all women lookstraight before them as she did? There must be some mysterious reason.It was a pity that her eyelashes were almost white. Yet they, too, addedsomething to the peculiarity of that strange gaze.

  "They are like periwinkles in a snowstorm!" exclaimed Clare, tired ofher own face; and she turned from the mirror and went to bed.