Adam Johnstone's SonCrawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
General
Adam Johnstone's Son
Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
British -- Italy -- Fiction; Divorce -- Fiction; Love stories
She turned quickly, and met his eyes as he stopped close to her, holding
out the white chudder which had slipped to the floor unnoticed when she
had risen from her seat. She took it mechanically and thanked him.
Instinctively looking past him down the long hall, she saw that the
little lady in white had turned in her seat and was watching her. Brook
made a slight bow and was gone again in an instant. Then Clare followed
her mother and went out.
"Let us go out behind the house," she said when they were in the broad
corridor. "There will be moonlight there, and those people will
monopolise the terrace when they have finished dinner."
At the western end of the old monastery there is a broad open space,
between the buildings and the overhanging rocks, at the base of which
there is a deep recess, almost amounting to a cave, in which stands a
great black cross planted in a pedestal of whitewashed masonry. A few
steps lead up to it. As the moon rose higher the cross was in the
shadow, while the platform and the buildings were in the full light.
The two women ascended the steps and sat down upon a stone seat.
"What a night!" exclaimed the young girl softly.
Her mother silently bent her head, but neither spoke again for some
time. The moonlight before them was almost dazzling, and the air was
warm. Beyond the stone parapet, far below, the tideless sea was silent
and motionless under the moon. A crooked fig-tree, still leafless,
though the little figs were already shaped on it, cast its intricate
shadow upon the platform. Very far away, a boy was singing a slow minor
chant in a high voice. The peace was almost disquieting--there was
something intensely expectant in it, as though the night were in love,
and its heart beating.
Clare sat still, her hand upon her mother's thin wrist, her lips just
parted a little, her eyes wide and filled with moon-dreams. She had
almost lost herself in unworded fancies when her mother moved and spoke.
"I had quite forgotten a letter I was writing," she said. "I must finish
it. Stay here, and I will come back again presently."
She rose, and Clare watched her slim dark figure and the long black
shadow that moved with it across the platform towards the open door of
the hotel. But when it had disappeared the white fancies came flitting
back through the silent light, and in the shade the young eyes fixed
themselves quietly to meet the vision and see it all, and to keep it for
ever if she could.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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