Adam Johnstone's Son. F. Marion Crawford

new hats and caps, and their russet shoes were resplendent. They moved as though everything belonged to them, from the wild crests of the hills above to the calm blue water below, and the hotel servants did their best to foster the agreeable illusion. They all wanted chairs, and tables, and things to drink, and fruit. One very fair little lady with hard, restless eyes, and clad in white serge, insisted upon having grapes, and no one could convince her that grapes were not ripe in May.

      “It’s quite absurd!” she objected. “Of course they’re ripe! We had the most beautiful grapes at breakfast at Leo Cairngorm’s the other day, so of course they must have them here. Brook! Do tell the man not to be absurd!”

      “Man!” said the member of the party she had last addressed. “Do not be absurd!”

      “Sì, Signore,” replied the black-whiskered Amalfitan servant with alacrity.

      “You see!” cried the little lady triumphantly. “I told you so! You must insist with these people. You can always get what you want. Brook, where’s my fan?”

      She settled upon a straw chair—like a white butterfly. The others walked on towards the end of the terrace, but the young man whom she called Brook stood beside her, slowly lighting a cigarette, not five paces from Mrs. Bowring and Clare.

      “I’m sure I don’t know where your fan is,” he said, with a short laugh, as he threw the end of the match over the wall.

      “Well then, look for it!” she answered, rather sharply. “I’m awfully hot, and I want it.”

      He glanced at her before he spoke again.

      “I don’t know where it is,” he said quietly, but there was a shade of annoyance in his face.

      “I gave it to you just as we were getting into the boat,” answered the lady in white. “Do you mean to say that you left it on board?”

      “I think you must be mistaken,” said the young man. “You must have given it to somebody else.”

      “It isn’t likely that I should mistake you for any one else—especially to-day.”

      “Well—I haven’t got it. I’ll get you one in the hotel, if you’ll have patience for a moment.”

      He turned and strode along the terrace towards the house. Clare Bowring had been watching the two, and she looked after the man as he moved rapidly away. He walked well, for he was a singularly well-made young fellow, who looked as though he were master of every inch of himself. She had liked his brown face and bright blue eyes, too, and somehow she resented the way in which the little lady ordered him about. She looked round and saw that her mother was watching him too. Then, as he disappeared, they both looked at the lady. She too had followed him with her eyes, and as she turned her face sideways to the Bowrings Clare thought that she was biting her lip, as though something annoyed her or hurt her. She kept her eyes on the door. Presently the young man reappeared, bearing a palm-leaf fan in his hand and blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. Instantly the lady smiled, and the smile brightened as he came near.

      “Thank you—dear,” she said as he gave her the fan.

      The last word was spoken in a lower tone, and could certainly not have been heard by the other members of the party, but it reached Clare’s ears, where she sat.

      “Not at all,” answered the young man quietly.

      But as he spoke he glanced quickly about him, and his eyes met Clare’s. She fancied that she saw a look of startled annoyance in them, and he coloured a little under his tan. He had a very manly face, square and strong. He bent down a little and said something in a low voice. The lady in white half turned her head, impatiently, but did not look quite round. Clare saw, however, that her expression had changed again, and that the smile was gone.

      “If I don’t care, why should you?” were the next words Clare heard, spoken impatiently and petulantly.

       The man who answered to the name of Brook said nothing, but sat down on the parapet of the terrace, looking out over his shoulder to seaward. A few seconds later he threw away his half-smoked cigarette.

      “I like this place,” said the lady in white, quite audibly. “I think I shall send on board for my things and stay here.”

      The young man started as though he had been struck, and faced her in silence. He could not help seeing Clare Bowring beyond her.

      “I’m going indoors, mother,” said the young girl, rising rather abruptly. “I’m sure it must be time for tea. Won’t you come too?”

      The young man did not answer his companion’s remark, but turned his face away again and looked seaward, listening to the retreating footsteps of the two ladies.

      On the threshold of the hotel Clare felt a strong desire to look back again and see whether he had moved, but she was ashamed of it and went in, holding her head high and looking straight before her.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      The people from the yacht belonged to that class of men and women whose uncertainty, or indifference, about the future leads them to take possession of all they can lay hands on in the present, with a view to squeezing the world like a lemon for such enjoyment as it may yield. So long as they tarried at the old hotel, it was their private property. The Bowrings were forgotten; the two English old maids had no existence; the Russian invalid got no more hot water for his tea; the plain but obstinately inquiring German family could get no more information; even the quiet young French couple—a honeymoon couple—sank into insignificance. The only protest came from an American, whose wife was ill and never appeared, and who staggered the landlord by asking what he would sell the whole place for on condition of vacating the premises before dinner.

      “They will be gone before dinner,” the proprietor answered.

      But they did not go. When it was already late somebody saw the moon rise, almost full, and suggested that the moonlight would be very fine, and that it would be amusing to dine at the hotel table and spend the evening on the terrace and go on board late.

      “I shall,” said the little lady in white serge, “whatever the rest of you do. Brook! Send somebody on board to get a lot of cloaks and shawls and things. I am sure it is going to be cold. Don’t go away! I want you to take me for a walk before dinner, so as to be nice and hungry, you know.”

      For some reason or other, several of the party laughed, and from their tone one might have guessed that they were in the habit of laughing, or were expected to laugh, at the lady’s speeches. And every one agreed that it would be much nicer to spend the evening on the terrace, and that it was a pity that they could not dine out of doors because it would be far too cool. Then the lady in white and the man called Brook began to walk furiously up and down in the fading light, while the lady talked very fast in a low voice, except when she was passing within earshot of some of the others, and the man looked straight before him, answering occasionally in monosyllables.

      Then there was more confusion in the hotel, and the Russian invalid expressed his opinion to the two English old maids, with whom he fraternised, that dinner would be an hour late, thanks to their compatriots. But they assumed an expression appropriate when speaking of the peerage, and whispered that the yacht must belong to the Duke of Orkney, who, they had read, was cruising in the Mediterranean, and that the Duke was probably the big man in grey clothes who had a gold cigarette case. But in all this they were quite mistaken. And their repeated examinations of the hotel register were altogether fruitless, because none of the party had written their names in it. The old maids, however, were quite happy and resigned to waiting for their dinner. They presently retired to attempt for themselves what stingy nature had refused to do for them in the way of adornment, for the dinner was undoubtedly to be an occasion of state, and their eyes were to see the glory of a lord.