Adam Johnstone's Son

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER VIII

  In obedience to Clare's expressed wish, Johnstone made no mention thatevening of the rather serious adventure on the Salerno road. They hadfallen into the habit of shaking hands when they bade each othergood-night. When it was time, and the two ladies rose to withdraw,Johnstone suddenly wished that Clare would make some little sign tohim--the least thing to show that this particular evening was notprecisely what all the other evenings had been, that they were drawn alittle closer together, that perhaps she would change her mind and notdislike him any more for that unknown reason at which he could not evenguess.

  They joined hands, and his eyes met hers. But there was no unusualpressure--no little acknowledgment of a common danger past. The blueeyes looked at him straight and proudly, without softening, and thefresh lips calmly said good-night. Johnstone remained alone, and in asingularly bad humour for such a good-tempered man. He was angry withClare for being so cold and indifferent, and he was ashamed of himselffor wishing that she would admire him a little for having knocked down atipsy carter. It was not much of an exploit. What she had done had beenvery much more remarkable. The man would not have killed him, of course,but he might have given him a very dangerous wound with that uglyclasp-knife. Clare's frock was cut to pieces on one side, and it was awonder that she had escaped without a scratch. He had no right to expectany praise for what he had done, when she had done so much more.

  To tell the truth, it was not praise that he wanted, but a sign that shewas not indifferent to him, or at least that she no longer disliked him.He was ashamed to own to himself that he was half in love with a younggirl who had told him that she did not like him and would never even behis friend. Women had not usually treated him in that way, so far. Butthe fact remained, that she had got possession of his thoughts, and madehim think about his actions when she was present. It took a good deal todisturb Brook Johnstone's young sleep, but he did not sleep well thatnight.

  As for Clare, when she was alone, she regretted that she had not justnodded kindly to him, and nothing more, when she had said good-night.She knew perfectly well that he expected something of the sort, andthat it would have been natural, and quite harmless, without anypossibility of consequence. She consoled herself by repeating that shehad done quite right, as the vision of Lady Fan rose distinctly beforeher in a flood of memory's moonlight. Then it struck her, as the visionfaded, that her position was a very odd one. Personally, she liked theman. Impersonally, she hated and despised him. At least she believedthat she did, and that she should, for the sake of all women. To her, asshe had known him, he was brave, kind, gentle in manner and speech,boyishly frank. As she had seen him that once, she had thought himheartless, cowardly, and cynical. She could not reconcile the two, andtherefore, in her thoughts, she unconsciously divided him into twoindividualities--her Mr. Johnstone and Lady Fan's Brook. There was verylittle resemblance between them. Oddly enough, she felt a sort of pangfor him, that he could ever have been the other man whom she had firstseen. She was getting into a very complicated frame of mind.

  They met in the morning and exchanged greetings with unusual coldness.Brook asked whether she were tired; she said that she had done nothingto tire her, as though she resented the question; he said nothing inanswer, and they both looked at the sea and thought it extremely dull.Presently Johnstone went off for a walk alone, and Clare buried herselfin a book for the morning. She did not wish to think, because herthoughts were so very contradictory. It was easier to try and followsome one else's ideas. She found that almost worse than thinking, but,being very tenacious, she stuck to it and tried to read.

  At the midday meal they exchanged commonplaces, and neither looked atthe other. Just as they left the dining-room a heavy thunderstorm brokeoverhead with a deluge of rain. Clare said that the thunder made herhead ache, and she disappeared on pretence of lying down. Mrs. Bowringwent to write letters, and Johnstone hung about the reading-room, andsmoked a pipe in the long corridor, till he was sick of the sound of hisown footsteps. Amalfi was all very well in fine weather, he reflected,but when it rained it was as dismal as penny whist, Sunday in London, ora volume of sermons--or all three together, he added viciously, in histhoughts. The German family had fallen back upon the guide book,Mommsen's _History of Rome_, and the _Gartenlaube_. The Russian invalidwas presumably in his room, with a teapot, and the two English old maidswere reading a violently sensational novel aloud to each other by turnsin the hotel drawing-room. They stopped reading and got very red, whenJohnstone looked in.

  It was a dreary afternoon, and he wished that something would happen.The fight on the preceding day had stirred his blood--and other thingsperhaps had contributed to his restless state of mind. He thought ofClare's torn frock, and he wished he had killed the carter outright. Hereflected that, as the man was attacking him with a knife, he himselfwould have been acquitted.

  Late in the afternoon the sky cleared and the red light of the loweringsun struck the crests of the higher hills to eastward. Brook went outand smelled the earth-scented air, and the damp odour of theorange-blossoms. But that did not please him either, so he turned backand went through the long corridor to the platform at the back of thehotel. To his surprise he came face to face with Clare, who was walkingbriskly backwards and forwards, and saw him just as he emerged from thedoor. They both stood still and looked at each other with an odd littleconstraint, almost like anxiety, in their faces. There was a short,awkward silence.

  "Well?" said Clare, interrogatively, and raising her eyebrows a verylittle, as though wondering why he did not speak.

  "Nothing," Johnstone answered, turning his face seaward. "I wasn'tgoing to say anything."

  "Oh!--you looked as though you were."

  "No," he said. "I came out to get a breath of air, that's all."

  "So did I. I--I think I've been out long enough. I'll go in." And shemade a step towards the door.

  "Oh, please, don't!" he cried suddenly. "Can't we walk together a littlebit? That is, if you are not tired."

  "Oh no! I'm not tired," answered the young girl with a cold littlelaugh. "I'll stay if you like--just a few minutes."

  "Thanks, awfully," said Brook in a shy, jerky way.

  They began to walk up and down, much less quickly than Clare had beenwalking when alone. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other.Johnstone remarked that he thought it would not rain again just then,and after some minutes of reflection Clare said that she rememberedhaving seen two thunderstorms within an hour, with a clear sky between,not long ago. Johnstone also thought the matter over for some timebefore he answered, and then said that he supposed the clouds must havebeen somewhere in the meantime--an observation which did not strikeeither Clare or even himself as particularly intelligent.

  "I don't think you know much about thunderstorms," said Clare, afteranother silence.

  "I? No--why should I?"

  "I don't know. It's supposed to be just as well to know about things,isn't it?"

  "I dare say," answered Brook, indifferently. "But science isn't exactlyin my line, if I have any line."

  They recrossed the platform in silence.

  "What is your line--if you have any?" Clare asked, looking at the groundas she walked, and perfectly indifferent as to his answer.

  "It ought to be beer," answered Brook, gravely. "But then, you know howit is--one has all sorts of experts, and one ends by taking their wordfor granted about it. I don't believe I have any line--unless it's inthe way of out-of-door things. I'm fond of shooting, and I can ridefairly, you know, like anybody else."

  "Yes," said Clare, "you were telling me so the other day, you know."

  "Yes," Johnstone murmured thoughtfully, "that's true. Please excuse me.I'm always repeating myself."

  "I didn't mean that." Her tone changed a little. "You can be veryamusing when you like, you know."

  "Thanks, awfully. I should like to be amusing now, for instance, but Ican't."

  "Now? Why now?"

  "Because I'm boring yo
u to madness, little by little, and I'm awfullysorry too, for I want you to like me--though you say you never will--andof course you can't like a bore, can you? I say, Miss Bowring, don't youthink we could strike some sort of friendly agreement--to be friendswithout 'liking,' somehow? I'm beginning to hate the word. I believeit's the colour of my hair or my coat--or something--that you dislikeso. I wish you'd tell me. It would be much kinder. I'd go to work andchange it--"

  "Dye your hair?" Clare laughed, glad that the ice was broken again.

  "Oh yes--if you like," he answered, laughing too. "Anything to pleaseyou."

  "Anything 'in reason'--as you proposed yesterday."

  "No--anything in reason or out of it. I'm getting desperate!" He laughedagain, but in his laughter there was a little note of something new tothe young girl, a sort of understreak of earnestness.

  "It isn't anything you can change," said Clare, after a moment'shesitation. "And it certainly has nothing to do with your appearance, oryour manners, or your tailor," she added.

  "Oh well, then, it's evidently something I've done, or said," Brookmurmured, looking at her.

  But she did not return his glance, as they walked side by side; indeed,she turned her face from him a little, and she said nothing, for she wasfar too truthful to deny his assertion.

  "Then I'm right," he said, with an interrogation, after a long pause.

  "Don't ask me, please! It's of no importance after all. Talk ofsomething else."

  "I don't agree with you," Brook answered. "It is very important to me."

  "Oh, nonsense!" Clare tried to laugh. "What difference can it make toyou, whether I like you or not?"

  "Don't say that. It makes a great difference--more than I thought itcould, in fact. One--one doesn't like to be misjudged by one's friends,you know."

  "But I'm not your friend."

  "I want you to be."

  "I can't."

  "You won't," said Brook, in a lower tone, and almost angrily. "You'vemade up your mind against me, on account of something you've guessedat, and you won't tell me what it is, so I can't possibly defend myself.I haven't the least idea what it can be. I never did anythingparticularly bad, I believe, and I never did anything I should beashamed of owning. I don't like to say that sort of thing, you know,about myself, but you drive me to it. It isn't fair. Upon my word, it'snot fair play. You tell a man he's a bad lot, like that, in the air, andthen you refuse to say why you think so. Or else the whole thing is asort of joke you've invented--if it is, it's awfully one-sided, it seemsto me."

  "Do you really think me capable of anything so silly?" asked Clare.

  "No, I don't. That makes it all the worse, because it proves that youhave--or think you have--something against me. I don't know much aboutlaw, but it strikes me as something tremendously like libel. Don't youthink so yourself?"

  "Oh no! Indeed I don't. Libel means saying things against people,doesn't it? I haven't done that--"

  "Indeed you have! I mean, I beg your pardon for contradicting you likethat--"

  "Rather flatly," observed Clare, as they turned in their walk, and theireyes met.

  "Well, I'm sorry, but since we are talking about it, I've got to saywhat I think. After all, I'm the person attacked. I have a right todefend myself."

  "I haven't attacked you," answered the young girl, gravely.

  "I won't be rude, if I can help it," said Brook, half roughly. "But Iasked you if you disliked me for something I had done or said, and youcouldn't deny it. That means that I have done or said something badenough to make you say that you will never be my friend--and that mustbe something very bad indeed."

  "Then you think I'm not squeamish? It would have to be something very,very bad."

  "Yes."

  "Thank you. Well, I thought it very bad. Anybody would, I should fancy."

  "I never did anything very, very bad, so you must be mistaken," answeredJohnstone, exasperated.

  Clare said nothing, but walked along with her head rather high, lookingstraight before her. It had all happened before her eyes, on the veryground under her feet, on that platform. Johnstone knew that he hadspoken roughly.

  "I say," he began, "was I rude? I'm awfully sorry." Clare stopped andstood still.

  "Mr. Johnstone, we sha'n't agree. I will never tell you, and you willnever be satisfied unless I do. So it's a dead-lock."

  "You are horribly unjust," answered Brook, very much in earnest, andfixing his bright eyes on hers. "You seem to take a delight intormenting me with this imaginary secret. After all, if it's somethingyou saw me do, or heard me say, I must know of it and remember it, sothere's no earthly reason why we shouldn't discuss it."

  There was again that fascination in his eyes, and she felt herselfyielding.

  "I'll say one thing," she said. "I wish you hadn't done it!"

  She felt that she could not look away from him, and that he was gettingher into his power. The colour rose in her face.

  "Please don't look at me!" she said suddenly, gazing helplessly into hiseyes, but his steady look did not change.

  "Please--oh, please look away!" she cried, half-frightened and growingpale again.

  He turned from her, surprised at her manner.

  "I'm afraid you're not in earnest about this, after all," he said,thoughtfully. "If you meant what you said, why shouldn't you look atme?"

  She blushed scarlet again.

  "It's very rude to stare like that!" she said, in an offended tone."You know that you've got something--I don't know what to call it--onecan't look away when you look at one. Of course you know it, and youought not to do it. It isn't nice."

  "I didn't know there was anything peculiar about my eyes," said Brook."Indeed I didn't! Nobody ever told me so, I'm sure. By Jove!" heexclaimed, "I believe it's that! I've probably done it before--andthat's why you--" he stopped.

  "Please don't think me so silly," answered Clare, recovering hercomposure. "It's nothing of the sort. As for that--that way you have oflooking--I dare say I'm nervous since my illness. Besides--" shehesitated, and then smiled. "Besides, do you know? If you had looked atme a moment longer I should have told you the whole thing, and then weshould both have been sorry."

  "I should not, I'm sure," said Brook, with conviction. "But I don'tunderstand about my looking at you. I never tried to mesmerise anyone--"

  "There is no such thing as mesmerism. It's all hypnotism, you know."

  "I don't know what they call it. You know what I mean. But I'm sure it'syour imagination."

  "Oh yes, I dare say," answered the young girl with affectedcarelessness. "It's merely because I'm nervous."

  "Well, so far as I'm concerned, it's quite unconscious. I don't know--Isuppose I wanted to see in your eyes what you were thinking about.Besides, when one likes a person, one doesn't think it so dreadfullyrude to look at them--at him--I mean, at you--when one is in earnestabout something--does one?"

  "I don't know," said Clare. "But please don't do it to me. It makes mefeel awfully uncomfortable somehow. You won't, will you?" she asked,with a sort of appeal. "You would make me tell you everything--and thenI should hate myself."

  "But I shouldn't hate you."

  "Oh yes, you would! You would hate me for knowing."

  "By Jove! It's too bad!" cried Brook. "But as for that," he addedhumbly, "nothing would make me hate you."

  "Nothing? You don't know!"

  "Yes, I do! You couldn't make me change my mind about you. I've grownto--to like you a great deal too much for that in this short time--agreat deal more than is good for me, I believe," he added, with a sortof rough impulsiveness. "Not that I'm at all surprised, you know," hecontinued with an attempt at a laugh. "One can't see a person like you,most of the day, for ten days or a fortnight, without--well, you know,admiring you most tremendously--can one? I dare say you think that mightbe put into better English. But it's true all the same."

  A silence followed. The warm blood mantled softly in the girl's faircheeks. She was taken by surprise with an odd l
ittle breath ofhappiness, as it were, suddenly blowing upon her, whence she knew not.It was so utterly new that she wondered at it, and was not conscious ofthe faint blush that answered it.

  "One gets awfully intimate in a few days," observed Brook, as though hehad discovered something quite new.

  She nodded, but said nothing, and they still walked up and down. Thenhis words made her think of that sudden intimacy which had probablysprung up between him and Lady Fan on board the yacht, and her heart washardened again.

  "It isn't worth while to be intimate, as you call it," she said at last,with a little sudden sharpness. "People ought never to be intimate,unless they have to live together--in the same place, you know. Thenthey can't exactly help it, I suppose."

  "Why should they? One can't exactly intrench oneself behind a wall withpistols and say 'Be my friend if you dare.' Life would be veryuncomfortable, I should think."

  "Oh, you know what I mean! Don't be so awfully literal."

  "I was trying to understand," said Johnstone, with unusual meekness. "Iwon't, if you don't want me to. But I don't agree with you a bit. Ithink it's very jolly to be intimate--in this sort of way--or perhaps alittle more so."

  "Intimate enemies? Enemies can be just as intimate as friends, youknow."

  "I'd rather have you for my intimate enemy than not know you at all,"said Brook.

  "That's saying a great deal, Mr. Johnstone."

  Again she was pleased in a new way by what he said. And a temptationcame upon her unawares. It was perfectly clear that he was beginning tomake love to her. She thought of her reflections after she had seen himalone with Lady Fan, and of how she had wished that she could break hisheart, and pay him back with suffering for the pain he had given anotherwoman. The possibility seemed nearer now than then. At least, she couldeasily let him believe that she believed him, and then laugh at him andhis acting. For of course it was acting. How could such a man beearnest? All at once the thought that he should respect her so littleas to pretend to make love to her incensed her.

  "What an extraordinary idea!" she exclaimed rather scornfully. "Youwould rather be hated, than not known!"

  "I wasn't talking generalities--I was speaking of you. Please don'tmisunderstand me on purpose. It isn't kind."

  "Are you in need of kindness just now? You don't exactly strike one inthat way, you know. But your people will be coming in a day or two, Isuppose. I've no doubt they'll be kind to you, as you call it--whateverthat may mean. One speaks of being kind to animals and servants, youknow--that sort of thing."

  Nothing can outdo the brutality of a perfectly unaffected young girlunder certain circumstances.

  "I don't class myself with either, thank you," said Brook, justlyoffended. "You certainly manage to put things in a new light sometimes.I feel rather like that mule we saw yesterday."

  "Oh--I thought you didn't class yourself with animals!" she laughed.

  "Have you any particular reason for saying horridly disagreeablethings?" asked Brook coldly.

  There was a pause.

  "I didn't mean to be disagreeable--at least not so disagreeable as allthat," said Clare at last. "I don't know why it is, but you have atalent for making me seem rude."

  "Force of example," suggested Johnstone.

  "No, I'll say that for you--you have very good manners."

  "Thanks, awfully. Considering the provocation, you know, that's animmense compliment."

  "I thought I would be 'kind' for a change. By the bye, what are wequarrelling about?" She laughed. "You began by saying something verynice to me, and then I told you that you were like the mule, didn't I?It's very odd! I believe you hypnotise me, after all."

  "At all events, if we were not intimate, you couldn't possibly say thethings you do," observed Brook, already pacified.

  "And I suppose you would not take the things I say, so meekly, wouldyou?"

  "I told you I was a very mild person," said Johnstone. "We were talkingabout it yesterday, do you remember?"

  "Oh yes! And then you illustrated your idea of meekness by knocking downthe first man we met."

  "It was your fault," retorted Brook. "You told me to stop his beatingthe mule. So I did. Fortunately you stopped him from sticking a knifeinto me. Do you know? You have awfully good nerves. Most women wouldhave screamed and run up a tree--or something. They would have got outof the way, at all events."

  "I think most women would have done precisely what I did," said Clare."Why should you say that most women are cowards?"

  "I didn't," answered Brook. "But I refuse to quarrel about it. I meantto say that I admired you--I mean, what you did--well, more thananything."

  "That's a sweeping sort of compliment. Am I to return it?" She glancedat him and smiled.

  "You couldn't, with truth."

  "Of course I could. I don't remember ever seeing anything of that sortbefore, but I don't believe that anybody could have done it better. Iadmired you more than anything just then, you know." She laughed oncemore as she added the last words.

  "Oh, I don't expect you to go on admiring me. I'm quite satisfied, andgrateful, and all that."

  "I'm glad you're so easily satisfied. Couldn't we talk seriously aboutsomething or other? It seems to me that we've been chaffing for half anhour, haven't we?"

  "It hasn't been all chaff, Miss Bowring," said Johnstone. "At least, noton my side."

  "Then I'm sorry," Clare answered. They relapsed into silence, as theywalked their beat, to and fro. The sun had gone down, and it was alreadytwilight on that side of the mountains. The rain had cooled the air, andthe far land to southward was darkly distinct beyond the purple water.It was very chilly, and Clare was without a shawl, and Johnstone washatless, but neither of them noticed that it was cool. Johnstone was thefirst to speak.

  "Is this sort of thing to go on for ever, Miss Bowring?" he askedgravely.

  "What?" But she knew very well what he meant.

  "This--this very odd footing we are on, you and I--are we never going toget past it?"

  "Oh--I hope not," answered Clare, cheerfully. "I think it's verypleasant, don't you? And most original. We are intimate enough to sayall sorts of things, and I'm your enemy, and you say you are my friend.I can't imagine any better arrangement. We shall always laugh when wethink of it--even years hence. You will be going away in a few days, andwe shall stay here into the summer and we shall never see each otheragain, in all probability. We shall always look back on this time--assomething quite odd, you know."

  "You are quite mistaken if you think that we shall never meet again,"said Johnstone.

  "I mean that it's very unlikely. You see we don't go home very often,and when we do we stop with friends in the country. We don't go muchinto society. And the rest of the time we generally live in Florence."

  "There is nothing to prevent me from coming to Florence--or livingthere, if I choose."

  "Oh no--I suppose not. Except that you would be bored to death. It's notvery amusing, unless you happen to be fond of pictures, and you neversaid you were."

  "I should go to see you."

  "Oh--yes--you could call, and of course if we were at home we should bevery glad to see you. But that would only occupy about half an hour ofone day. That isn't much."

  "I mean that I should go to Florence simply for the sake of seeing you,and seeing you often--all the time, in fact."

  "Dear me! That would be a great deal, wouldn't it? I thought you meantjust to call, don't you know?"

  "I'm in earnest, though it sounds very funny, I dare say," saidJohnstone.

  "It sounds rather mad," answered Clare, laughing a little. "I hope youwon't do anything of the kind, because I wouldn't see you more thanonce or twice. I'd have headaches and colds and concerts--all the thingsone has when one isn't at home to people. But my mother would bedelighted. She likes you tremendously, you know, and you could go aboutto galleries together and read Ruskin and Browning--do you know theStatue and the Bust? And you could go and see Casa Guidi, where theBrownings lived
, and you could drive up to San Miniato, and then, youknow, you could drive up again and read more Browning and more Ruskin.I'm sure you would enjoy it to any extent. But I should have to gothrough a terrific siege of colds and headaches. It would be rather hardon me."

  "And harder on me," observed Brook, "and quite fearful for Mrs.Bowring."

  "Oh no! She would enjoy every minute of it. You forget that she likesyou."

  "You are afraid I should forget that you don't."

  "I almost--oh, a long way from quite! I almost liked you yesterday whenyou thrashed the carter and tied him up so neatly. It was beautifullydone--all those knots! I suppose you learned them on board of the yacht,didn't you?"

  "I've yachted a good deal," said Brook.

  "Generally with that party?" inquired Clare.

  "No. That was the first time. My father has an old tub he goes aboutin, and we sometimes go together."

  "Is he coming here in his 'old tub'?"

  "Oh no--he's lent her to a fellow who has taken her off to Japan, Ibelieve."

  "Japan! Is it safe? In an 'old tub'!"

  "Oh, well--that's a way of talking, you know. She's a good enough boat,you know. My father went to New York in her, last year. She's a steamer,you know. I hate steamers. They are such dirty noisy things! But ofcourse if you are going a long way, they are the only things."

  He spoke in a jerky way, annoyed and discomfited by her forcing theconversation off the track. Though he was aware that he had gone furtherthan he intended, when he proposed to spend the winter in Florence.Moreover, he was very tenacious by nature, and had rarely been seriouslyopposed during his short life. Her persistent refusal to tell him thecause of her deep-rooted dislike exasperated him, while her frank andcareless manner and good-fellowship fascinated him more and more.

  "Tell me all about the yacht," she said. "I'm sure she is a beauty,though you call her an old tub."

  "I don't want to talk about yachts," he answered, returning to theattack in spite of her. "I want to talk about the chances of seeing youafter we part here."

  "There aren't any," replied the young girl carelessly. "What is the nameof the yacht?"

  "Very commonplace--'Lucy,' that's all. I'll make chances if there arenone--"

  "You mustn't say that 'Lucy' is commonplace. That's my mother's name."

  "I beg your pardon. I couldn't know that. It always struck me that itwasn't much of a name for a yacht, you know. That was all I meant. He'sa queer old bird, my father; he always says he took it from the Bride ofLammermoor, Heaven knows why. But please--I really can't go away andfeel that I'm not to see you again soon. You seem to think that I'mchaffing. I'm not. I'm very serious. I like you very much, and I don'tsee why one should just meet and then go off, and let that be theend--do you?"

  "I don't see why not," exclaimed Clare, hating the unexpected longingshe felt to agree with him, and tell him to come and stay in Florence asmuch as he pleased. "Come--it's too cold here. I must be going in."