"A gentleman to see you, ma'am."
"To see me, Isaac?" said Claire, starting in terror, and with a strange
foreboding of ill. "Who is it? Did he give his name?"
"No, miss; he would not give any name. Said it was on important
business. He asked for Miss May first."
"For Miss May?"
"Yes, ma'am; and I told him she was married, and did not live here now;
and he smiled, and said `Of course.' Then he said he would see you."
Claire had risen, and she stood listening to the man, clutching the
chair tightly, and striving hard to seem composed.
"Where is he, Isaac?" she asked, hardly knowing what fell from her lips.
"In the dining-room, ma'am."
"I will come down."
Isaac left the room, and Claire drew a long breath.
Who could it be? Some one who had forgotten that May was married, and
then recalled it! What did it mean?
She stood with her hands tightly clasped, gazing straight before her,
and then walked quickly to the door, and down into the dining-room, so
quietly that the short, slight man gazing out of the window did not hear
her entrance.
Claire was puzzled while for the moment she gazed at the attitude of her
visitor, whose long black hair fell over the collar of his
tightly-buttoned surtout, as he stood with one hand resting upon his
hip, the other holding his hat and tasselled cane.
She drew a breath of relief. It was no one she knew, of that she felt
sure. Perhaps it was no fresh trouble after all.
As if divining the presence of some one in the room, the visitor just
then turned quickly, displaying handsome aquiline features, with the
olive skin and dark eyes of a young man of about thirty, who threw down
his hat and cane and advanced smiling.
"My dear Miss Denville--my dear Claire!" he exclaimed, speaking with a
foreign accent.
Claire stood as if frozen, gazing at him in horror.
"M. Gravani!" she cried at last in a hoarse whisper.
"Say Louis," he said eagerly, taking her hands and kissing them. "Why
not? Surely my dear May told you--that she is my wife. No, no, do not
be angry with me. It was wrong, I know. But you--you were always so
sweet and good and kind, dear Claire!"
He kissed her hands again, and she stood as if in a dream while he went
on--speaking fervidly.
"You, so tender, and who loved dear May so much. You will forgive me.
We were so young--I was so poor--I dared not speak. What would the
Signore Denville have said? That I was mad. May must have told you--
she did tell you we were married?"
"Yes--yes," said Claire slowly, "she told me."
"That is well. And the old man--the good father, she told him, too!"
"No," said Claire, still in the same slow, dreamy way, as she strove to
listen to her visitor, and at the same time work out in her own mind the
meaning of the horrible situation in which her sister was placed.
"She did not tell him? She promised me she would. But the servant told
me he knew that May was married."
"Yes," stammered Claire; "he knew."
"I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so
poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win
fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty--my May-bud.
Claire--dear sister--no, no, you frown--you must forgive us, for we were
so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you.
I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in
my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a
rich man--what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will
forgive me. But, May? She is not here?"
"No, no," said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale.
"She is not far away?"
"Not far away," said Claire, "but Louis, Monsieur Gravani--"
"No, no, not Monsieur--not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your
brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She
is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello
painted, and that I have had ever in my heart."
"No, she is not changed," sighed Claire.
"No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!"
"But Louis--"
"Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!"
He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed
as he seized Claire's hands.
"No, no," she cried. "No, no; she is quite well."
"Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now."
"No, no, you cannot. It is impossible," cried Claire.
"Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are
killing me."
"She--she--my poor sister--she thought--she heard--she had news, Louis--
that you were dead."
"Dead?--I?--dead? Oh, my poor little flower!" he cried, with a ring of
tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the
instant. "But who told her? Who sent her those lies?"
"I don't know--I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis--because
you were dead."
"My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here--
here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to
her now."
"It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must
wait till to-morrow."
"No, no; I could not wait," he cried excitedly. "I love her. I am
here. I must see her now."
Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her
side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come.
What was she to do?--say something to deceive this man and keep him
waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister?
The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life
was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused
reflections upon her.
"You love May still?" she said at last.
"Love her still!" he cried, with all the impassioned manner of a young
Italian. "I tell you it has been desolation to be separated from her
all this time; but it was our hard fate, and I have suffered, as she
has, poor child. But the thought of seeing her again has comforted me,
and I have waited, oh, so patiently, till I could come to her again.
Now, tell me, good sister, I must see her--quick--at once."
"No," cried Claire, "it is impossible. You must wait."
"Wait?--I?--wait?"
"Yes," said Claire desperately; and there was so much firmness and
decision in her tone that the weak, impassioned young Italian was
mastered, and yielded to her will.
"Not long, sweet sister, not for long?"
"No, not for long," said Claire excitedly. "It is for May's sake. You
would not wish to harm her?"
"I? Harm her? Heaven! no. I would die for her," cried the young man
enthusiastically. "You little think how we love."
"Then wait till I have seen, and broken the news to her."
"Broken the news, when my arms are throbbing to embrace her once more?"
"Go to where you are staying, and wait patiently till you hear from me
or from May, arranging for an interview."
"Go?--and wait?"
"Yes," cried Claire; "for May's sake."
"I? Go and wait!" sighed the young man. "Well, it is for her. But the
old father? Let me stay and embrace him, and tell him how rich I am,
and of my joy. He was always kind to me, even when I was so poor."
"Impossible!" cried Claire, trembling for fear that her father should
return.
"Impossible? Well, I will go. Addio--addio. I shall be at the hotel.
You will hasten to her, sweet sister, and tell her my heart has been
always filled with her sweet image; that her dear face is in a dozen
pictures that I have painted in Rome. You will tell her this?"
"Yes, yes," cried Claire desperately. "I will go and tell her you are
here."
"Addio, cara mia!" he said, as he bent over and tenderly kissed her
hands, and then her cheek. "Addio, sweet sister, I am dying till I once
more hold her in these arms."
Claire led him to the door, as if she were in a dream; and, as she
listened to his departing steps, her hands involuntarily clasped her
throbbing head, and Isaac confided to his fellow-servants the
information that there were strange goings-on in that house, and that
when he liked to speak--well, they would see.
"What shall I do?"
Volume Two, Chapter XXXI.