Giovanna gravely inclined her head. “My father was a Roman Catholic, but my mother was an Englishwoman and a Protestant. My only brother was brought up in the faith of his father, I in that of my mother.”
“So much the better—so much the better,” ejaculated Sir Gilbert, quite unaware that the words were spoken aloud.
It was a fact that Giovanna had been married at the English church at Valetta, but a prior ceremony had been gone through at Catanzaro, at which a Romish priest had been the celebrant, for Giuseppe Rispani was too good a Catholic, or had the reputation of being one, not to insist upon his daughter being married in accordance with the rites and ceremonies of his own church. That being done, he had raised no objection to accompanying the young couple as far as Malta (to him, indeed, it was a pleasure trip with all expenses paid), there to give away the bride when the ceremony was gone through for the second time. After that Rispani had bidden his daughter goodbye and gone back home, first, however, borrowing a couple of hundred pounds from his English son-in-law in order, as he averred, that he might have the means of carrying out certain much needed alterations and improvements in the osteria of the Golden Fig. It is to be feared, however, that the amount in question never got any further than his own pocket.
After the departure of Rispani the newly-wedded couple had made the best of their way to the United States.
To return.
“In that case, madam,” resumed the baronet after a brief pause, “you have doubtless been at pains to preserve your marriage certificate.”
Giovanna had preserved it, had, in fact, brought it with her this morning. She now produced it, a creased and faded-looking document, from the satchel suspended from her waist-belt, opened it and handed it to Sir Gilbert; who, having adjusted his pince-nez and drawn his chair up to the centre table, smoothed out the certificate upon it and proceeded to read it slowly and carefully from beginning to end, his lips shaping each word silently as he spoke it to himself. It purported to be, and was a duly certified copy of the entry in the register of the Protestant church at Valetta of the marriage solemnised on the date specified between John Alexander Clare and Giovanna Rispani. It would have been idle to dispute its genuineness, even had there been any inclination, which was far from being the case, on Sir Gilbert’s part to do so.
“Madam, the document seems to me in every respect satisfactory,” he said gravely as he refolded it and handed it back to Giovanna with a bow.
In return she put into his hands a framed photograph of herself and her husband, taken within a few days of their marriage. “Possibly, Sir Gilbert, this may not be without some interest for you,” she said in her quiet, measured tones.
The old man took the photograph and carried it to the window. Scarcely was his back turned before the Captain flashed a look at Vanna which said, “Everything, so far, going on first-rate.”