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
Everything was quiet and peaceful again, and there seemed to be neither
trace nor memory of the preceding day's invasion. The English old maids
were early at their window, and saw with disappointment that the yacht
was gone. They were never to know whether the big man with the gold
cigarette case had been the Duke of Orkney or not. But order was
restored, and they got their tea and toast without difficulty. The
Russian invalid was slicing a lemon into his cup on the vine-sheltered
terrace, and the German family, having slept on the question of the Pope
and Bismarck, were ruddy with morning energy, and were making an early
start for a place in the hills where the Professor had heard that there
was an inscription of the ninth century.
The young girl stood still on her balcony, happily dazed for a few
moments by the strong sunshine and the clear air. It is probably the
sensation enjoyed for hours together by a dog basking in the sun, but
with most human beings it does not last long--the sun is soon too hot
for the head, or too bright for the eyes, or there is a draught, or the
flies disturb one. Man is not capable of as much physical enjoyment as
the other animals, though perhaps his enjoyment is keener during the
first moments. Then comes thought, restlessness, discontent, change,
effort, and progress, and the history of man's superiority is the
journal of his pain.
For a little while, Clare stood blinking in the sunshine, smitten into a
pleasant semi-consciousness by the strong nature around her. Then she
thought of Brook and the lady in white, and of all she had been a
witness of in the evening, and the colour of things changed a little,
and she turned away and went between the little white and red curtains
into her room again. Life was certainly not the same since she had heard
and seen what a man and a woman could say and be. There were certain new
impressions, where there had been no impression at all, but only a
maiden readiness to receive the beautiful. What had come was not
beautiful, by any means, and the thought of it darkened the air a
little, so that the day was not to be what it might have been. She
realised how she was affected, and grew impatient with herself. After
all, it would be the easiest thing in the world to avoid the man, even
if he stayed some time. Her mother was not much given to making
acquaintance with strangers.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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