“Mr. Johnstone told me that his father had a big steam yacht called the ‘Lucy’—mother, that man loved you, he loves you still.”
“Me? Oh no—no, he never loved me!” She laughed wildly, with quivering lips. “Don’t, child—don’t! For God’s sake don’t ask questions—you’ll drive me mad! It’s the secret of my life—the only secret I have from you—oh, Clare, if you love me at all—don’t ask me!”
“Mother, sweet! Of course I love you!”
The young girl, very pale and wondering, kneeled beside the elder woman and threw her arms round her and drew down her face, kissing the white cheeks and the starting tears and the faded flaxen hair. The storm subsided, almost without breaking, for Mrs. Bowring was a brave woman and, in some ways, a strong woman, and whatever her secret might be, she had kept it long and well from her daughter.
Clare knew her, and inwardly decided that the secret must have been worth keeping. She loved her mother far too well to hurt her with questions, but she was amazed at what she herself felt of resentful curiosity to know the truth about anything which could cast a shadow upon the man she disliked, as she thought so sincerely. Her mind worked like lightning, while her voice spoke softly and her hands sought those thin, familiar, gentle fingers which were an integral part of her world and life.
Two possibilities presented themselves. Johnstone’s father was a brother or near connection of her mother’s first husband. Either she had loved him, been deceived in him, and had married the brother instead; or, having married, this man had hated her and fought against her, and harmed her, because she was his elder brother’s wife, and he coveted the inheritance. In either case it was no fault of Brook’s. The most that could be said would be that he might have his father’s character. She inclined to the first of her theories. Old Johnstone had made love to her mother and had half broken her heart, before she had married his brother. Brook was no better—and she thought of Lady Fan. But she was strangely glad that her mother had said “not dishonourable, as men look at it.” It had been as though a cruel hand had been taken from her throat, when she had heard that.
“But, mother,” she said presently, “these people are coming to-morrow or the next day—and they mean to stay, he says. Let us go away, before they come. We can come back afterwards—you don’t want to meet them.”
Mrs. Bowring was calm again, or appeared to be so, whatever was passing in her mind.
“I shall certainly not run away,” she answered in a low, steady voice. “I will not run away and leave Adam Johnstone’s son to tell his father that I was afraid to meet him, or his wife,” she added, almost in a whisper. “I’ve been weak, sometimes, my dear—” her voice rose to its natural key again, “and I’ve made a mistake in life. But I won’t be a coward—I don’t believe I am, by nature, and if I were I wouldn’t let myself be afraid now.”
“It would not be fear, mother. Why should you suffer, if you are going to suffer in meeting him? We had much better go away at once. When they have all left, we can come back.”