AN OFFER AND ITS ACCEPTANCE
Sir Gilbert Clare and Mr. Page reached Catanzaro in due course. They
were met by Alec, who had been apprised by the lawyer of the time when
they might be expected to arrive, and who had secured rooms for them at
the Golden Fig, the _osteria_ at which he himself had been a guest for
so long a time.
Father and son greeted each other with a grave silent bow. Alec flushed
to the roots of his hair as soon as he realized that it was Sir
Gilbert’s intention to treat him as a stranger; then as suddenly he
turned pale. Next moment his pride came to his aid. He drew himself up,
and turning courteously to Mr. Page, expressed to him his fear that he
must have found the journey both tedious and fatiguing.
At dinner, which had been ordered by Alec beforehand, the two arrivals
were waited upon by Rispani in person. This also was by arrangement
with Alec, who, for some reason which he could not have defined to
himself, was desirous that, for the time being, Giovanna should keep in
the background.
It is to be borne in mind that Rispani had no suspicion, either then or
afterwards, that the English “Milor” was Alec’s father, or, indeed, any
relation whatever of the young man. Ever since he had come abroad,
young Clare had dropped his surname and had simply been known as “Mr.
John Alexander,” a cognomen which his Italian friends, to whom the
English syllables seemed a concatenation of barbarous sounds, had not
failed to naturalise into “Il Signor Alessandro.”
Both Sir Gilbert and Mr. Page retired at an early hour.
The lawyer, who despite Alec’s failings, had a very genuine liking for
him, would fain have secured half an hour’s private talk with the young
man, but there was no possibility of such a thing till the baronet had
sought his own room, and then Alec was nowhere to be found. He had gone
for a long solitary walk, and there was no knowing when he would be
back. The hour of ten next morning had already been named as that which
was to see the important business entered upon which had brought the
two Englishmen so far from home.
Mr. Page had not failed to come prepared with the legal document to
which, in the presence of the requisite witnesses, the heir would be
required to affix that signature which would leave him an heir no
longer.
The lawyer had anticipated some difficulty in obtaining a couple of
witnesses in that out-of-the-way spot with sufficient knowledge of
English to comprehend what was required of them, but it proved to be a
difficulty that was readily overcome with the help of Alec. In Giuseppe
Rispani and a friend of his who at one time had filled the position of
_courrier de place_, were found precisely the two people needed.
No sooner was breakfast over than word was sent to Alec that everything
was in readiness. Then he and the witnesses proceeded upstairs to the
_sala_ which had been set aside for the use of the _forestieri_. A
slight haughty inclination of the head was the sole greeting vouchsafed
them by Sir Gilbert as they entered the room.
It may be here remarked that Alec had neither dined nor breakfasted
with his father. Time had availed nothing to soften the latter’s
hostility towards his eldest son.
The baronet’s chair was apart near the window. On a table in the middle
of the room were pens and ink, together with a formidable looking
document.
Mr. Page, having shaken hands with Alec, greeted the two Italians in
his most urbane manner, and then motioned them to a couple of chairs on
the opposite side of the table. Next he handed the paper to Alec, who
sat down on the third chair while he glanced over its various clauses,
the lawyer standing at his elbow while he did so. That done, without a
moment’s hesitation, Alec dipped a pen in the ink and wrote his name in
full at the foot in bold flowing characters. He then made way for the
witnesses, standing aside with folded arms. At Mr. Page’s invitation,
Rispani moved to the chair vacated by Alec and proceeded to scrawl his
signature on the line indicated by the lawyer’s finger. A like process
was then gone through by the second Italian. Neither of them had the
least notion as to the contents of the document to which they had
appended their signatures. Mr. Page had taken care of that. A sheet of
blotting-paper which he had applied to Alec’s signature was left so as
to cover three-fourths of the paper, while the sleeve of his coat, as
he indicated the spot where each witness was to write his name,
effectually hid the last of the three words, “John Alexander Clare.”
He had not lost sight of the fact that in Catanzaro Alec was known only
as the Signor Alessandro.
As soon as the Italians were gone Mr. Page sat down, and from the
breast pocket of his coat produced a bulky packet of bank notes of
various denominations, which, with the help of a moistened forefinger,
he proceeded to count with methodical deliberation.
Having satisfied himself on a point about which he had felt perfectly
sure beforehand, he pushed the notes across the table to Alec.
“There, sir,” he said; “if you will be at the trouble of counting them,
you will find that they amount in the aggregate to exactly six thousand
pounds.”
“I will take your word for that, Mr. Page,” replied Alec, with a bitter
smile as he crumpled up the notes and thrust them into his pocket.
By this a carriage, previously ordered, was at the door. The two
gentlemen had arranged to post as far as Reggio. Sir Gilbert, who
despite his husk of frigidity, was far from comfortable in his mind,
and was especially desirous of getting away at the earliest possible
moment, had already drawn on his gloves and taken possession of his
dust-coat and umbrella. He now extended his rigid fingers to his son,
whose hand instinctively closed over them, but without any
consciousness of the slightest pressure in return.
“Goodbye,” said the baronet. “You have my best wishes for your
prosperity in the future. At any time it will gratify me to hear that
you are doing well. Now, Mr. Page, if you are ready.”
With that the fingers were withdrawn, and turning on his heel, he
stalked solemnly out, leaving his son, who had said no word in reply,
standing in the middle of the room.
Next moment Mr. Page was wringing Alec’s hand.
“Goodbye, my dear boy, and may Heaven bless and prosper you,” exclaimed
the lawyer, with an unwonted tremor in his voice. “Never forget that in
Cornelius Page you have a firm friend; and don’t fail to advise me from
time to time of your whereabouts.”
Three minutes later, as one in a dream, Alec heard the crack of the
driver’s whip and the rattle of the carriage as it jolted over the
narrow paved street. Then when the last sound had died away, his
manhood suddenly broke down. Sinking into a chair, with his elbows
resting on the table and his face covered with his hands, he let the
tears drop silently between his fingers.
Now it so happened that there was one feature about the _osteria_ of
the Golden Fig, which, for various reasons, it is to be hoped is by no
means common to similar houses of entertainment either in Italy or
elsewhere.
The peculiarity in question was neither more nor less than a peephole,
or place of espial, behind one corner of the elaborate plaster
scroll-work of fruit and foliage which ran round the ceiling of the
room in which the scene related above had taken place. This spy-hole
was reached by means of a flight of steps shut up from ordinary view in
what looked like a tall clothes closet in the adjoining chamber.
The house was an old one, and what purpose this secret place of
observation had originally served it was now impossible to tell.
Rispani had found it there when he took the house, and on more than one
occasion had taken advantage of it to pry into the doings of his
guests; but never to such good purpose as to-day, for from that coign
of vantage he had been an unseen witness of the transfer of the roll of
notes to Signor Alessandro.
Immediately after the departure of the Englishman Rispani sought his
daughter.
“The Signor Alessandro loves thee—is it not so?” he said to her in
Italian. There was something in his tone which convinced Vanna that he
had a special motive in putting the question.
“His eyes have told me that he loves me, but his words never.”
“Thou lovest him in return?”
“I like him—yes; better than I like any one. But as for loving him—no.”
“Should he ask thee to wed him, what will thy answer be?”
“It will be time enough to decide that when he _has_ asked me.”
“He _will_ ask thee—I feel sure of it—and thy answer must be
yes—yes—yes!”
Vanna’s dark orbs looked the surprise she felt.
“Listen,” resumed Rispani, laying a hand on her arm and speaking into
her ear. “One of the strangers who have just gone gave the Signor
Alessandro bank-notes to the value of six thousand pounds English
money. These eyes saw him do it. Think! Six thousand pounds!”
Father and daughter looked meaningly at each other. In the eyes of both
sparkled the same cold avaricious gleam. At that moment the likeness
between them was almost startling.
Giuseppe Rispani had prophesied rightly. At the hour of sunset Alec
Clare sought Giovanna and found her where she sat under the grape
trellis in the far garden. Nowhere could there have been a spot more
suitable for the purpose he had in view. Vanna might have had a
prevision that he would look for her there.
Alec had dreaded lest, when the crucial moment should have come, his
tongue would fail him and that he should find himself the prey of a
silence, at once painful and absurd. But no such mishap befell him.
How the declaration brought itself about he could hardly have told
afterwards; all he knew was that he found it surprisingly easy and
simple to give utterance to what he wanted to say. But it may have been
that Vanna smoothed the way for him after a fashion which, in his
preoccupation, he was scarcely conscious of. In any case, he spoke with
an ardour and a manly earnestness which did not fail to carry
conviction to his listener’s heart. It was impossible to doubt his
sincerity.
Vanna had already been made love to by more than one impulsive Italian,
but she now discovered that this Englishman, ordinarily so
undemonstrative and phlegmatic, could, the occasion being given him,
rise to a height of passionate fervour which transformed him for the
time being into a veritable son of the sunny South. Taking both the
girl’s unresisting hands in his, and devouring her with his eyes, he
ended with the words, “Giovanna, will you be mine?”
No faintest tinge of superadded emotion flushed the clear olive of
Vanna’s cheek, but the heavy fringes of her eyelids lifted and the
midnight orbs behind them gave back Alec look for look.
Then the full ripe lips curved into a siren-like smile, the cool brown
fingers softly returned her lover’s clasp, and in a whisper came the
words:
“I will be yours.”