HOW SIR GILBERT RECEIVED THE NEWS
It is to be hoped that the reader has not quite forgotten the existence
of Everard Lisle.
After Ethel Thursby’s refusal of him on her eighteenth birthday he went
back with a sad heart to his duties at Withington Chase. There he had
rooms in the house of Mr. Kinaby, the land steward, an old red brick
house situated a little way outside the precincts of the park. Mr.
Kinaby’s health had been failing for some time, and Everard was
gradually taking over the greater part of his duties. Every morning he
went to the Chase to see to Sir Gilbert’s correspondence and take his
instructions in reference to the estate and other matters. But he had
still other duties to attend to. In addition to being a numismatist of
some note and a collector of curios, Sir Gilbert of late years had
developed into an antiquarian and archæologist, and for some time past
had been engaged in putting together the framework of what he intended
ultimately to elaborate into an exhaustive history of the “hundred” of
the county in which the Chase was situated, as natives of which his
ancestors for three centuries back had played more or less conspicuous
parts. In furtherance of this labour of love, for such it was to him,
he found Everard very useful in the way of hunting up authorities,
making extracts and transcribing his notes into a calligraphy which it
would be possible for a compositor to set up—when, at some as yet
unknown date, the great work should be sufficiently advanced to be sent
to press—without having to tear his hair in the process.
Sir Gilbert, whom advancing years had tended to render more of a
recluse than ever, had gradually, and by a process of which he himself
was scarcely conscious, begun to entertain a great liking (in his
frigid, undemonstrative way) for this frank-eyed, clear-headed,
straightforward young man, in whom he could detect no faintest trace of
sycophancy, and who knew so well how to retain the full measure of his
own self-respect without in any way grating against the _amour-propre_
of his employer. Lisle had evolved a happy faculty of managing the
lonely cantankerous old man, for whom he often felt a profound pity, as
no one before had ever succeeded in managing him. Thus it had come to
pass that a week never went by without Everard being asked to dine
once, and frequently oftener, at the Chase. On these occasions, when
dinner was over, the old man and the young one would wind up the
evening by playing a few sober games of chess or backgammon, at both of
which Sir Gilbert was an adept. By the time the turret clock struck
ten, Everard would be strolling back through the park in the direction
of his rooms, with no company save a cigar and his own thoughts. At
such seasons, with the fresh night air blowing about him, with the
stars raining down sweet influences upon him, and with the huge
ghost-like trees to sentinel him on his way, whither ought a young
man’s thoughts to wing their flight save to the one fair being, fairer
to him than all the world beside, who holds captive his heart, a
willing prisoner!
But, in Everard’s case, she who still held his heart captive did so all
unwittingly. She had rejected his proffered love and all was at an end
between them. He could never hope to win her for his wife, but that
seemed to him no reason, however little such a course might recommend
itself to his cooler judgment, why he should not go on loving her just
as he had done all along, In any case, he did go on loving her, nor did
it seem possible to him that a time should ever come when he could do
otherwise. He knew that in all human probability the day was not far
distant when he should hear the news of her marriage with another, and
he tried to school himself by anticipation, so that when the shock
should come, he might be enabled to bear it with manly equanimity.
On a certain morning, as Sir Gilbert Clare and Everard Lisle were
engaged together in the library at Withington Chase, a servant entered
carrying a highly-glazed card on a salver. “I have shown the gentleman
into the morning-room, sir,” said the man as he presented the card.
Sir Gilbert took it and adjusted his _pince-nez_. “Captain Verinder,”
he read aloud. “Have no recollection of anyone of that name. Um-um. I
suppose I must go and see what he wants me for.” Then, to the man,
“Tell Captain Verinder I will be with him immediately.”
The Captain had come down from town by an early train and had made his
way on foot from the railway station to the Chase. He had not seen
anything of the old mansion on the occasion of his previous visit, and
as he drew near, approaching it by way of the drive, he could not help
being much impressed, not merely by its size and the noble simplicity
of its façade, but by the old-time air of stately, if somewhat faded,
dignity which seemed as integral a part of it as the ivy which clung
round its gables and chimneys, or the patches of many-coloured lichen
with which time had encrusted its high-pitched roof. Nor was this
impression lessened when, in response to his summons, a servant in
livery opened wide the great double doors, and having taken his card,
ushered him through the big echoing hall, hung with trophies of war and
the chase, into a charming room furnished in the Empire style—although,
to be sure, the gilding was tarnished and the coverings of chairs and
lounges considerably the worse for wear—which looked out through its
long windows on a gay parterre of flowers, and was shut in with a sort
of sweet privacy by a semi-circular hedge of laurel and box. And here
Sir Gilbert found his visitor some three minutes later.
The Captain, it may be remembered, had only seen the baronet once
before, on that Sunday morning when he took account of him in his
high-backed pew at church. Now that he beheld him close at hand, he
could not help saying to himself, “What a grand wreck of a man!—and
what a splendid fellow he must have been in his prime!” And indeed,
although Sir Gilbert’s one-time height of six feet two inches was now
slightly curtailed owing to the burden of his years, he still towered
above most people with whom he came in contact, as though he were
descended from some heroic race of old, while his shaggy brows, his
white drooping moustache, his high thin nose and his eyes still
luminous with a sort of untamed fire, lent to his aspect a something of
leonine majesty.
“Captain Verinder, I presume,” said Sir Gilbert as he advanced, holding
the other’s card between his thumb and forefinger. The Captain bowed.
“You have—a—um—the advantage of me, sir. But pray be seated.” His keen
critical eyes were taking Verinder in from head to foot as he spoke. It
was a scrutiny which, despite his coolness and his habitual
indifference to the opinion of others, somewhat disconcerted the
latter.
“I have taken the liberty of intruding upon you, Sir Gilbert,” he
began, as he drew forward a chair and gave a little preliminary cough
behind his hand, “in order that I may have an opportunity of laying
before you certain information which has only quite recently come into
my possession, but which, I feel sure, when you have been made aware of
it, you will agree with me is of the greatest possible importance.”
Sir Gilbert opened his eyes a little wider than usual. “Pray proceed,
sir,” he said stiffly.
“The information to which I refer bears especially on certain incidents
in the life of your late son and heir, Mr. John Alexander Clare.”
On the instant Sir Gilbert’s figure became as rigid as a ramrod. His
lips opened and then shut again without a sound.
“Unless my information is at fault,” resumed the Captain, “the last
occasion on which you and your son met was when, accompanied by another
gentleman, you stopped for a few hours at Catanzaro in Calabria, at
which place Mr. Clare was then residing.”
Sir Gilbert contented himself with bowing a grave assent. His face just
then was a puzzle.
“Shortly afterwards Mr. Clare emigrated to the United States, and
there, between two and three years later, he unfortunately met with his
death through an accident.” Here the Captain paused and looked
questionably at Sir Gilbert.
“Your information, Mr.—er—Captain Verinder, is quite correct as far as
it goes,” said the latter as if in response to the look. “Still, I fail
to see in what way—er—in short——”
“Why I, a stranger, have had the impertinence to come here and talk to
you about matters which, as you doubtless think, can be no possible
concern of mine,” interposed Verinder coolly. “That is the precise
point, Sir Gilbert, as to which I now propose to enlighten you.”
Drawing his chair a few inches closer to that of Sir Gilbert he
resumed:
“I have merely recapitulated certain facts already known to you in
order that I might thereby be enabled to lead up to certain other facts
which, as I have every reason to believe, have never been brought under
your cognisance.”
He paused for a moment as if to allow his next words to gather force
thereby.
“Sir, is it within your knowledge that when your son left Italy for
America he took with him—a wife?”
At these words Sir Gilbert’s jaw dropped, a curious glaze came over his
eyes and his fingers began to twitch spasmodically. The Captain sprang
to his feet; he was on the point of ringing for help, but a gesture on
the part of the baronet restrained him.
“I shall be better in a minute or two,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Verinder crossed to the window. Two or three minutes passed, then a
hollow changed voice said: “What proof have you that your most strange
statement is true?”
“The most convincing of all proofs, Sir Gilbert—a living one. Your
son’s wife—or widow, as I ought rather to term her—is in London at this
moment.”
“Alive?—and I have known nothing of her existence all these years! It
is incredible, sir—incredible. I am being made the victim of some vile
conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy, indeed! Nothing of the kind, sir, I give you my word—the
word of an officer and a gentleman—hem! I condescend to overlook your
words, Sir Gilbert, in consideration of the singularity of the
circumstances, otherwise——”
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a cough. He said no more, but
twisted one end of his moustache viciously, and scowled at the
chandelier.
“It is incredible,” Sir Gilbert kept murmuring under his breath without
heeding Verinder. The latter waited patiently. One half his tale, and
that the more amazing half, had yet to be told. At length Sir Gilbert
seemed to pull himself together. Turning on his visitor a face which
seemed even more sternly set than usual, he said: “Assuming for the
moment, sir, the accuracy of what you have just told me—which, mind
you, at present I am by no means prepared to admit—will you be good
enough to inform me who and what the—the person was with whom my son
was so foolishly weak as to contract a secret marriage.”
It was a question for which the Captain had prepared himself, and he
answered it on the moment.
“The lady in question was born in Italy, her father being a native of
that country, and her mother an Englishwoman. Signor Rispani was a
scion of an impoverished patrician family which can boast of I know not
how many quarterings with other families as noble as itself.”
This latter statement, it may be remarked, was a deliberate invention
on the Captain’s part. He had calculated that it would not be without
its effect on the baronet, as also that the latter, in all probability,
had never heard the name of Rispani, or, if he had heard it during his
brief sojourn at Catanzaro, that he had long ago forgotten it.
“Um—um. And the young woman’s mother—what of her? You say she was an
Englishwoman.”
“Her mother, Sir Gilbert Clare, was my sister,” replied the Captain as
he laid his hand over the region of his heart and bent his head, while
his look said as plainly as words, “After that statement, it would be
nothing less than an impertinence on your part to inquire further.”
Sir Gilbert bowed with his most courtly air. “Thank you very much,
Captain Verinder,” he said. Then, after stroking his chin for a few
seconds, he went on: “May I ask, sir, whether your visit here to-day is
with the knowledge and sanction of your niece—that is to say of the—the
lady whom you allege to be the widow of my son?”
“Had my visit not been undertaken at her express desire, it would not
have taken place at all.”
“Um. Then will it be thought presumptuous on my part to ask by what
particular motive your niece is actuated in asking you, after a silence
which has lasted nearly a score of years, to bring under my notice
certain facts hitherto, I admit, unknown to me, but which, for anything
which has yet been advanced to the contrary, might just as well have
been left in the oblivion to which, apparently, they have for so long a
time been consigned.”
There was a veiled insolence in this request, or so it seemed to
Verinder, which sent an angry flush mounting to the very roots of his
dyed hair. It was only by a supreme effort that he succeeded in keeping
back the retort that rose to his lips. Not till he had drawn several
breaths did he trust himself to reply. Then he said: “Should you
condescend, Sir Gilbert, to grant my niece an interview, you will find
her amply prepared to furnish you with such an explanation of her long
silence as, I venture to think, you will find it impossible to cavil
at. But the one great reason which has induced her, at what may be
called the eleventh hour, to rake certain facts out of oblivion, as you
have so expressively termed it, and bring them before you, is, because
it seems to her an imperative duty that you should no longer be left in
ignorance of the existence of your grandson—of the son of your son, the
late John Alexander Clare.”
“What is that you say?” almost shrieked Sir Gilbert. “A grandson! the
child of my son Alec—and alive!”
“Very much alive, Sir Gilbert, if you will allow me to say so,”
returned the Captain, with something between a grin and a sneer. “And
as fine, and handsome, and clever a young man as you would find in a
day’s march.”
Sir Gilbert lay back in his chair, his chin drooping on his breast and
his eyes closed. His face was of a ghastly pallor, his lips moved
inaudibly. In the shock of Verinder’s news he had forgotten the man’s
presence. An invisible hand had snatched him away. He was there in body
but for the time his spirit was otherwhere.
The Captain was biting his nails and regarding him furtively. “How will
he take it?” he asked himself. “I have a presentiment that my little
scheme will result in a brilliant success. For all Sir Gilbert looks as
strong as some gnarled old monarch of the woods, who can say whether
he’s sound at the core? Looks are deceptive things, and at his age he
might go off at a day’s notice—nay, without any notice at all. It was
nothing less than a stroke of genius to represent Vanna’s father as
belonging to the old Italian nobility. It touched him in a weak spot.
Vanna must on no account forget that she is no longer an innkeeper’s
daughter, but a person of much greater consequence. Well, I will give
her credit for one thing; as far as looks and bearing go, she might be
a princess born, or the daughter of a duke. Ah! who comes now?”
The question was elicited by a discreet tap at the door, which was
followed, an instant later, by the entrance of a servant.
“If you please, Sir Gilbert,” said the man, “Lady Nelthorpe has called
and would like to see you. Her ladyship wished me to say that she won’t
detain you more than five minutes.”
The sound of the man’s voice served to break Sir Gilbert’s waking
trance. He opened his eyes, gave a little start, and grasping an arm of
his chair with either hand, he drew himself into an upright position.
Next moment he was himself again.
“Repeat your message,” he said to the man in his usual curt, imperious
tones; and when that had been done, he said: “Tell her ladyship that I
will be with her in three minutes,” adding, _sotto voce_, “Plague take
the woman! she never calls on me except when she wants to cozen me out
of a cheque for one or other of her preposterous projects.”
Then his eyes turned to Verinder, who had drawn his chair somewhat
aside on the entrance of the servant, and as he did so, the expression
of his face changed.
“Pardon me,” he said, “if for the moment I had forgotten your presence.
I am getting into years,” he added with a faint sigh, “and at
times—only at times, mind you—my memory fails me somewhat. The news you
have brought me, Captain—er—er—Dear me, how annoying!”
“Verinder,” suggested the other.
“To be sure, to be sure. The news you have brought me, Captain
Verinder, is of such a surprising kind that I may be pardoned if I find
myself unable all at once to realise it as something within the bounds
of possibility. It—it seems like an incident culled from some romance.”
Here he rose to his feet. There was a strange yearning look in his eyes
as he turned and faced the Captain. “Do you mean to assure me, sir, on
your word as a man of honour,” he said in a voice the deep
impressiveness of which was not without a touch of pathos, “that you
are prepared to produce before me a young man whom you will vouch for
as being the offspring of my son John Alexander Clare.”
Laying a hand over his heart, the Captain, who had also risen, said
with grave solemnity: “On my word of honour, Sir Gilbert Clare, that is
what I am prepared to do. Your grandson shall be produced before you
whensoever and wheresoever may be most convenient to you.”
Sir Gilbert took a turn or two in silence. Many memories were at work
within him. “No, I will not see the young man just yet. Bring his
mother first and let me see and question her. There are several points
that will have to be cleared up to my satisfaction before—before—— But
I need say no more at present.”
“Will you be good enough, Sir Gilbert, to name a time for your
interview with my niece?”
“To-morrow at eleven, if that will suit you and her.” Then he added
under his breath: “Ah, if my faithful, shrewd old Page were only here
to help me to investigate this business! The longer I live the more I
miss him.”