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."

"And you would