Once more, then, the register of his father’s marriage was secure in the keeping of the Consulate, Mr. Cecil had looked at it, compared Colin’s copy, which now lay safe in the breast-pocket of his coat, with the original, and had certified it to be correct. Colin had run no risk by inserting and then erasing a figure which might prove on scrutiny to be a subsequent addition; Mr. Cecil himself had been unaware that any change had been wrought on the page. But when the register on Lord Yardley’s death should be produced in accordance with the plan that was already ripening and maturing in Colin’s mind, a close scrutiny would reveal that it had been tampered with. Some hand unknown had clearly erased a figure there, altering the date from March 31 to March 1. The object of that would be clear enough, for it legalised the birth of the twins Rosina had borne. It was in the interest of any of four people to commit that forgery—of his father, of his mother, of Raymond, and of himself. Rosina was dead now these many years; his father, when the register was next produced, would be dead also, and from dead lips could come neither denial nor defence. Raymond might be left out of the question altogether, for never yet had he visited his mother’s native city, and of those alive when the register was produced, suspicion could only possibly attach to himself. It would have been in his interest to make that alteration, which should establish his legitimacy as well as that of his brother.
Colin, as he sat alone in the bows, fairly burst out laughing, before he proceeded to consider the wonderful sequel. He would be suspected, would he?... Then how would it come about that it was he, who in the nobility of stainless honour would produce his own mother’s letter, given him by his uncle, in which she announced to her brother that she was married at the British Consulate on the 31st of March? Had he been responsible for that erasure in the Consulate register, to legitimatise his own birth, how, conceivably, could he not only not conceal, but bring forward the very evidence that proved his illegitimacy? Had he tampered with the Consular book, he must have destroyed the letter which invalidated his forgery. But, instead of destroying it, he would produce it.
There was work ahead of him here and intrigue in which Salvatore must play a part. The work, of course, was in itself nothing; the insertion at the top of one of the two letters he owned of just that one figure which he had inserted and erased again in the register was all the manual and material business; a bottle of purple ink and five minutes’ practice would do that. But the intrigue was more difficult. Salvatore must be induced to acquiesce in the fact that the date of the letter announcing Rosina’s marriage was subsequent to that announcing the birth of the twins. That would require thought and circumspection; there must be no false step there.
And all this was but a preliminary manœuvring for the great action whereby, though at the cost of his own legitimacy, he should topple Raymond down from his place, and send him away outcast and penniless, and himself, with Violet for wife, now legal owner of all the wealth and honours of the family, become master of Stanier. She might for the love of him, which he believed was budding in her heart, throw Raymond over and marry him without cognisance of what he had done for her. But he knew, from knowledge of himself, how overmastering the passion for Stanier could be, and it might happen that she would choose Raymond with all that marriage to him meant, and stifle the cry of her love.
In that case (perhaps, indeed, in any case), Colin might find it better to make known to her the whole, namely that on his father’s death she would find herself in a position to contest the succession and claim everything for her own. Which of them, Raymond or himself, would she choose to have for husband in these changed circumstances? She disliked and proposed to tolerate the one for the sake of the great prize of possession; she was devoted to the other, who, so she would learn, had become possessed of the fact on which her ownership was established.
Or should he tell her all? Reveal his part in it? On this point he allowed his decision to remain in abeyance; what he should do, whether he should tell Violet nothing, or part, or all, must depend on circumstances, and for the present he would waste no more time over that. For the present, too, he would keep the signed and certified copy of his father’s marriage.
The point which demanded immediate consideration was that concerning Salvatore. Colin puzzled this out, sometimes baffled and frowning, sometimes with a clear course lying serene in front of his smiling eyes, as the steamer, leaving the promontory of the mainland behind, approached the island. He must see Salvatore, whom he had quite omitted to see in Naples, as soon as possible, and it would be much better to see him here, in the privacy of the villa, than seek him, thought Colin, in the publicity of the Palazzo Viagi, surrounded by those siren dames, Vittoria and Cecilia.
He would write at once, a pensive and yet hopeful little epistle to Uncle Salvatore wondering if he would come across to Capri yet once again, not for the mere inside of a day only, but for a more hospitable period. His father had left for England, Colin was alone, and there were matters to be talked over that weighed on his conscience.... That was a good phrase; Uncle Salvatore would remember what Colin had already done in the matter of the reduplicated cheque, and it would seem that the generous fellow had a debt of conscience yet unliquidated; this conveyed precisely the right impression.
In a postscript he would hint at the French nectar which, still dozing in the cellar.... He hesitated a moment, and then decided not to mention the subject of his mother’s letters, for it was better that since they were the sole concern of his visit, Uncle Salvatore should have the matter sprung upon him.... A bottle of purple ink ... no, that would not be necessary yet, for the later that you definitely committed yourself to a course of action the better.
Colin’s letter produced just the effect that he had calculated on; Salvatore read into the conscience-clause a generous impulse and congratulated himself on the departure of that grim, dry brother-in-law to whom (for he had tried that before) tears and frayed cuffs made no appeal. He had accordingly given that up, and for his last visit here made himself nobly resplendent. But to Colin, in the guilelessness of his blue-eyed boyhood, a tale of pinching and penury might be a suitable revelation, and it was a proud but shabby figure which presented itself at the villa a few evenings later, without more luggage than could be conveniently conveyed in a paper parcel. Colin, who had been observing the approach from the balcony of his bedroom, ran down, choking with laughter that must be choked, to let his uncle in.