Chapter Twenty Nine.Around the Throne.Mary, accompanied by the faithful Teresa, a stout, middle-aged woman in black, who had seen fifteen years of service in the family, went out along the Corso, at that hour crowded by the Roman idlers and foreign visitors.The bright air of the spring morning was refreshing after the dull gloom of the great old Antinori palace, and all Rome was full of life, movement, and gaiety. Carnival had passed, and the Pasqua was fast approaching, that time when the Roman season is its gayest and when the hotels are full of wealthy foreigners from the north.The court receptions and balls had brought the Italian aristocracy from the various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the weekly diplomatic receptions.As Mary went along the Corso to an artists’ colour shop, in order to purchase some tubes for the painting which occupied her spare time, she was saluted on every hand, for she was well-known and popular everywhere. Her beauty was remarked wherever she went.She bowed and smiled her acknowledgments, but, alas! only mechanically. She really did not recognise any of those men who raised their hats, the smart officers who drew their heels together and saluted, or the well-dressed women who nodded to her. Truth to tell, she was thinking of the man with whom she had so suddenly come face to face, the straight, athletic man who had spoken so openly and so frankly about himself when they had stood upon that green, level tennis-lawn at Orton. The recollection of him had almost faded from her memory until only half an hour ago, and now she found herself reflecting deeply, wondering whether he had really schemed to enter her father’s service, and, if so, with what motive.He had acknowledged himself to be a friend of Dubard, the man she held in such suspicion and distrust, and yet there was something so frank and honest in his manner that it held her mystified. As she walked along that narrow, crowded thoroughfare in the heart of Rome, memories of those idle summer days in England arose vividly before her, of the rural tennis tournament at Thornby, of the village flower-show held in the old-world rectory garden, and of George Macbean’s visit to Orton.Teresa spoke to her, but she heeded not. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the pleasant past when her life was free and she was unfettered. Now, however, that compact she had made to secure her father’s freedom had crushed all light and hope from her young heart, so that day by day, as her marriage approached, she became more inert and melancholy.Her delicacy, grace, and simplicity were astonishing when one viewed that irresponsible and artificial world of modernchicin which she lived. Her character, indeed, resolved itself into the very elements of womanhood. She was beautiful, modest, and tender, so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately refined that she was peerless among all others in that vain, silly, out-dressing set, where religion was only the cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade through Saint Peter’s or San Giovanni, the brilliant glittering crowd who formed the court circle of modern Italy around King Umberto’s throne.She had sprung up into beauty in that far-off modest school that faced the grey English Channel at Broadstairs, and on making her bow before her sovereign she had instantly created a sensation and a vogue for herself that still continued, one which, was fostered by the Minister and his wife, although at heart she hated all the hollow shams and scandalous gossip. True, she had had her little flirtations the same as other girls, yet she had never caught from society one imitated or artificial grace. She preferred the society of her father or her mother to that of girl friends; for most of the latter of her own world she found giddy and empty-headed, generally boasting of conquests they had made among men, and ridiculing them as fools.She tolerated society only under sheer compulsion. Through these three wild years of whirling excitement she had fortunately retained her woman’s heart, for it was unalterable and inalienable, as part of her being. And it was because of that she had now sacrificed herself to become the wife of Jules Dubard.Oh, the tragedy of it all! No single person was there in whom to confide, or of whom to seek advice. The bitter truth was forced upon her more and more each day. The compact with the man whose artificiality and mannerisms she held in such abhorrence she was bound to keep, for did she not hold her beloved father’s future in her hands?Of a sudden, when she was half-way up the Corso towards the Porta del Popolo, she heard the musical sounds of harness bells as a fine landau and pair swept up behind her.Every man’s head was uncovered and every woman bowed, for there flashed by Umberto the Good and his Queen Margherita, both worshipped by the people, and on every hand there rose the cry, “Viva il Re! Viva la Regina!”Mary bowed with the rest, and Her Majesty, quick to notice her, gave her a nod of recognition and gracious smile; for, as the world of Rome knew quite well, she was one of those behind the throne, a personal friend of the queen, who was never tired of admiring the wondrous beauty of the Minister’s daughter.The royal pair passed on at a gallop up the Corso, and Mary sighed to herself as the carriage disappeared. It recalled to her that she was compelled to attend the state ball at the Quirinale that night, much as she hated all those glittering official functions. Her dress, a marvellous creation in yellow, had arrived from Paris the day before; but when Teresa had taken it from its long box and shaken out the magnificent skirt, she had scarcely glanced at it. She wore those gorgeous gowns which were so admired at court only because it gratified her father. Personally, she delighted in a short, tailor-made skirt and a blouse like those she could wear at Orton. The vagaries of themodenever interested her in the least. Paquin had her model, and made her dresses as he liked. She simply wore them, annoyed at those long and difficult trains he gave her—that was all.The gay world around the throne believed that she studied the fashions and wore those costly gowns because she delighted in them. But such was not a fact. Her tastes were of the simplest, and her ideal always was a life in the rural quiet of Orton Court, with an occasional shopping visit to London as a dissipation. The very atmosphere of Rome, with its false appearances, its bartering of a girl’s bright youth, loveliness, and purity for titles, its gambling and its drug habits, stifled her. She loathed it all, and longed to enjoy life’s good gifts in rural England. Yet, alas! such an ideal was to her but a dream. It was her fate to be drawn into that maelstrom where each man and woman must be seen, must be known, and must be notorious in some way or other, no matter how.And because she was born in the official world, she was bound, for her father’s sake, to act her part in it.Through all that day she reflected upon the words which the young Englishman had uttered regarding Sazarac—that unusual name she had once overheard spoken, and which she recollected so well. She remarked how her father had distinctly betrayed fear at mention of it, and therefore the reason had ever since been a puzzling mystery to her.For months she had wondered at what Borselli meant when he had threatened her father. The latter had reproached him of his intention to betray him, whereupon the Under-Secretary had said—“I am in earnest. You act as I have suggested—or you take the consequences!”That in itself showed plainly that the Sicilian still held power over her father on account of what had been mentioned between them as “the Sazarac affair.”After luncheon she casually mentioned to her father her meeting with George Macbean, whereupon he said—“Oh, I quite thought I had told you of his appointment. I wanted an English secretary, and he was the very man to fill the post. You recollect that he visited us once or twice at Orton, but I had previously met him when he came to interpret for his employer Morgan-Mason regarding an army contract for Abyssinia.”“Did you offer him the appointment?” she asked.“No; Angelo did. He apparently knew of him.”His Excellency’s reply surprised Mary. Why, she wondered, had her father’s enemy appointed the young Englishman to a post in order to transfer him to her father’s cabinet as private secretary? She was suspicious of Borselli, and discerned in this some hidden motive.And yet was it not more than strange that the young Englishman was Dubard’s friend, while Dubard himself was in the secrets of Angelo Borselli! The more she pondered over the problem the more bewildering did it become.At midnight she alighted with her mother from the brougham in the great courtyard of the Quirinale, and gathering up her train, passed through the long flower-decked corridors, up the great staircase of marble and porphyry, where stood the tall, statuesque guards, and on into the magnificent Hall of the Ambassadors, where the guests at the court ball were assembling.As she let down her train and entered the magnificent salon with its gilt ceiling and myriad electric lights her appearance caused a murmur of approbation as every eye was turned upon her. The assembly was perhaps the most brilliant of any that could be gathered in any European capital. The men were in uniforms of every colour, with the crosses and ribbons of the various orders of chivalry. The ambassadors and their staffs were all there, from the Chinese representatives in their national dress to the cunning old gentleman from St. Petersburg in his white uniform tunic with the blue ribbon of St. Andrew at his throat. Lord Elton, the British Ambassador, a dark-bearded, elderly man, wearing the star of Knight Commander of the Bath, came forward to greet the War Minister’s wife and daughter, and there came up also to salute the ambassador Morini himself in his gorgeous uniform with the cerise and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and the green and white cross of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, as well as a number of minor foreign orders across his breast.In uniform Camillo Morini always looked his best, tall, refined, distinguished, a man who would be marked out anywhere as a leader among men. He was pale and haggard, however, having risen from his bed to come there and be seen because it was policy—always policy.Around on every side were high Italian officers in their gala uniform with golden epaulettes, women dressed exquisitely, and aged diplomatists and politicians bent beneath the weight of their gold-laced coats and many decorations. The room was a bewildering blaze of colour, diamonds gleaming in the tiaras of the women and in the crosses of the men, while on every hand was the loud, excited chatter of the gay, laughing crowd bidden there by royal command.Lord Elton was chatting in English with Mary and her mother, explaining that only yesterday he had returned from London, where he had been on leave, when of a sudden three loud, distinct knocks were heard, and in an instant there was silence. Then, a moment later, at the farther end of the apartment two long white doors were thrown open by the royal flunkeys bearing white wands in their hands, and through them flowed the crowd into the magnificent ballroom, one of the finest both in proportions and in decoration of any palace in the world. And here and in the suite of huge gilded reception-rooms beyond the gay court of Italy commenced its revels as the splendid orchestra in the balcony struck up the first dance upon the programme.From the ballroom there opened out through the open doors a vista of magnificent salons unequalled in grandeur even in that city of ancient palaces, and the elderly folk who did not care for dancing strolled away, greeting their friends at every step, and forming little groups for gossip.Mary, who had quickly become separated from her mother, found herself, almost before she was aware of it, in the arms of her friend Captain Fred Houghton, the British naval attaché, dancing over the magnificent floor and receiving his compliments, while in a corner of the room, apart from the others, stood Angelo Borselli in his general’s uniform, watching her with a strange smile upon his thin lips.And all around was in progress that drama of intrigue, of statecraft and duplicity, of diplomacy, of unscrupulous scheming for office and power which is inseparable from the vicinity of every European throne.In that gold and white room, while the orchestra played waltz-music, the prosperity of the gallant Italian nation often trembled in the balance, for those polished floors formed the stage whereon some of the strangest of modern dramas were enacted.
Mary, accompanied by the faithful Teresa, a stout, middle-aged woman in black, who had seen fifteen years of service in the family, went out along the Corso, at that hour crowded by the Roman idlers and foreign visitors.
The bright air of the spring morning was refreshing after the dull gloom of the great old Antinori palace, and all Rome was full of life, movement, and gaiety. Carnival had passed, and the Pasqua was fast approaching, that time when the Roman season is its gayest and when the hotels are full of wealthy foreigners from the north.
The court receptions and balls had brought the Italian aristocracy from the various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the weekly diplomatic receptions.
As Mary went along the Corso to an artists’ colour shop, in order to purchase some tubes for the painting which occupied her spare time, she was saluted on every hand, for she was well-known and popular everywhere. Her beauty was remarked wherever she went.
She bowed and smiled her acknowledgments, but, alas! only mechanically. She really did not recognise any of those men who raised their hats, the smart officers who drew their heels together and saluted, or the well-dressed women who nodded to her. Truth to tell, she was thinking of the man with whom she had so suddenly come face to face, the straight, athletic man who had spoken so openly and so frankly about himself when they had stood upon that green, level tennis-lawn at Orton. The recollection of him had almost faded from her memory until only half an hour ago, and now she found herself reflecting deeply, wondering whether he had really schemed to enter her father’s service, and, if so, with what motive.
He had acknowledged himself to be a friend of Dubard, the man she held in such suspicion and distrust, and yet there was something so frank and honest in his manner that it held her mystified. As she walked along that narrow, crowded thoroughfare in the heart of Rome, memories of those idle summer days in England arose vividly before her, of the rural tennis tournament at Thornby, of the village flower-show held in the old-world rectory garden, and of George Macbean’s visit to Orton.
Teresa spoke to her, but she heeded not. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the pleasant past when her life was free and she was unfettered. Now, however, that compact she had made to secure her father’s freedom had crushed all light and hope from her young heart, so that day by day, as her marriage approached, she became more inert and melancholy.
Her delicacy, grace, and simplicity were astonishing when one viewed that irresponsible and artificial world of modernchicin which she lived. Her character, indeed, resolved itself into the very elements of womanhood. She was beautiful, modest, and tender, so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately refined that she was peerless among all others in that vain, silly, out-dressing set, where religion was only the cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade through Saint Peter’s or San Giovanni, the brilliant glittering crowd who formed the court circle of modern Italy around King Umberto’s throne.
She had sprung up into beauty in that far-off modest school that faced the grey English Channel at Broadstairs, and on making her bow before her sovereign she had instantly created a sensation and a vogue for herself that still continued, one which, was fostered by the Minister and his wife, although at heart she hated all the hollow shams and scandalous gossip. True, she had had her little flirtations the same as other girls, yet she had never caught from society one imitated or artificial grace. She preferred the society of her father or her mother to that of girl friends; for most of the latter of her own world she found giddy and empty-headed, generally boasting of conquests they had made among men, and ridiculing them as fools.
She tolerated society only under sheer compulsion. Through these three wild years of whirling excitement she had fortunately retained her woman’s heart, for it was unalterable and inalienable, as part of her being. And it was because of that she had now sacrificed herself to become the wife of Jules Dubard.
Oh, the tragedy of it all! No single person was there in whom to confide, or of whom to seek advice. The bitter truth was forced upon her more and more each day. The compact with the man whose artificiality and mannerisms she held in such abhorrence she was bound to keep, for did she not hold her beloved father’s future in her hands?
Of a sudden, when she was half-way up the Corso towards the Porta del Popolo, she heard the musical sounds of harness bells as a fine landau and pair swept up behind her.
Every man’s head was uncovered and every woman bowed, for there flashed by Umberto the Good and his Queen Margherita, both worshipped by the people, and on every hand there rose the cry, “Viva il Re! Viva la Regina!”
Mary bowed with the rest, and Her Majesty, quick to notice her, gave her a nod of recognition and gracious smile; for, as the world of Rome knew quite well, she was one of those behind the throne, a personal friend of the queen, who was never tired of admiring the wondrous beauty of the Minister’s daughter.
The royal pair passed on at a gallop up the Corso, and Mary sighed to herself as the carriage disappeared. It recalled to her that she was compelled to attend the state ball at the Quirinale that night, much as she hated all those glittering official functions. Her dress, a marvellous creation in yellow, had arrived from Paris the day before; but when Teresa had taken it from its long box and shaken out the magnificent skirt, she had scarcely glanced at it. She wore those gorgeous gowns which were so admired at court only because it gratified her father. Personally, she delighted in a short, tailor-made skirt and a blouse like those she could wear at Orton. The vagaries of themodenever interested her in the least. Paquin had her model, and made her dresses as he liked. She simply wore them, annoyed at those long and difficult trains he gave her—that was all.
The gay world around the throne believed that she studied the fashions and wore those costly gowns because she delighted in them. But such was not a fact. Her tastes were of the simplest, and her ideal always was a life in the rural quiet of Orton Court, with an occasional shopping visit to London as a dissipation. The very atmosphere of Rome, with its false appearances, its bartering of a girl’s bright youth, loveliness, and purity for titles, its gambling and its drug habits, stifled her. She loathed it all, and longed to enjoy life’s good gifts in rural England. Yet, alas! such an ideal was to her but a dream. It was her fate to be drawn into that maelstrom where each man and woman must be seen, must be known, and must be notorious in some way or other, no matter how.
And because she was born in the official world, she was bound, for her father’s sake, to act her part in it.
Through all that day she reflected upon the words which the young Englishman had uttered regarding Sazarac—that unusual name she had once overheard spoken, and which she recollected so well. She remarked how her father had distinctly betrayed fear at mention of it, and therefore the reason had ever since been a puzzling mystery to her.
For months she had wondered at what Borselli meant when he had threatened her father. The latter had reproached him of his intention to betray him, whereupon the Under-Secretary had said—
“I am in earnest. You act as I have suggested—or you take the consequences!”
That in itself showed plainly that the Sicilian still held power over her father on account of what had been mentioned between them as “the Sazarac affair.”
After luncheon she casually mentioned to her father her meeting with George Macbean, whereupon he said—
“Oh, I quite thought I had told you of his appointment. I wanted an English secretary, and he was the very man to fill the post. You recollect that he visited us once or twice at Orton, but I had previously met him when he came to interpret for his employer Morgan-Mason regarding an army contract for Abyssinia.”
“Did you offer him the appointment?” she asked.
“No; Angelo did. He apparently knew of him.”
His Excellency’s reply surprised Mary. Why, she wondered, had her father’s enemy appointed the young Englishman to a post in order to transfer him to her father’s cabinet as private secretary? She was suspicious of Borselli, and discerned in this some hidden motive.
And yet was it not more than strange that the young Englishman was Dubard’s friend, while Dubard himself was in the secrets of Angelo Borselli! The more she pondered over the problem the more bewildering did it become.
At midnight she alighted with her mother from the brougham in the great courtyard of the Quirinale, and gathering up her train, passed through the long flower-decked corridors, up the great staircase of marble and porphyry, where stood the tall, statuesque guards, and on into the magnificent Hall of the Ambassadors, where the guests at the court ball were assembling.
As she let down her train and entered the magnificent salon with its gilt ceiling and myriad electric lights her appearance caused a murmur of approbation as every eye was turned upon her. The assembly was perhaps the most brilliant of any that could be gathered in any European capital. The men were in uniforms of every colour, with the crosses and ribbons of the various orders of chivalry. The ambassadors and their staffs were all there, from the Chinese representatives in their national dress to the cunning old gentleman from St. Petersburg in his white uniform tunic with the blue ribbon of St. Andrew at his throat. Lord Elton, the British Ambassador, a dark-bearded, elderly man, wearing the star of Knight Commander of the Bath, came forward to greet the War Minister’s wife and daughter, and there came up also to salute the ambassador Morini himself in his gorgeous uniform with the cerise and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and the green and white cross of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, as well as a number of minor foreign orders across his breast.
In uniform Camillo Morini always looked his best, tall, refined, distinguished, a man who would be marked out anywhere as a leader among men. He was pale and haggard, however, having risen from his bed to come there and be seen because it was policy—always policy.
Around on every side were high Italian officers in their gala uniform with golden epaulettes, women dressed exquisitely, and aged diplomatists and politicians bent beneath the weight of their gold-laced coats and many decorations. The room was a bewildering blaze of colour, diamonds gleaming in the tiaras of the women and in the crosses of the men, while on every hand was the loud, excited chatter of the gay, laughing crowd bidden there by royal command.
Lord Elton was chatting in English with Mary and her mother, explaining that only yesterday he had returned from London, where he had been on leave, when of a sudden three loud, distinct knocks were heard, and in an instant there was silence. Then, a moment later, at the farther end of the apartment two long white doors were thrown open by the royal flunkeys bearing white wands in their hands, and through them flowed the crowd into the magnificent ballroom, one of the finest both in proportions and in decoration of any palace in the world. And here and in the suite of huge gilded reception-rooms beyond the gay court of Italy commenced its revels as the splendid orchestra in the balcony struck up the first dance upon the programme.
From the ballroom there opened out through the open doors a vista of magnificent salons unequalled in grandeur even in that city of ancient palaces, and the elderly folk who did not care for dancing strolled away, greeting their friends at every step, and forming little groups for gossip.
Mary, who had quickly become separated from her mother, found herself, almost before she was aware of it, in the arms of her friend Captain Fred Houghton, the British naval attaché, dancing over the magnificent floor and receiving his compliments, while in a corner of the room, apart from the others, stood Angelo Borselli in his general’s uniform, watching her with a strange smile upon his thin lips.
And all around was in progress that drama of intrigue, of statecraft and duplicity, of diplomacy, of unscrupulous scheming for office and power which is inseparable from the vicinity of every European throne.
In that gold and white room, while the orchestra played waltz-music, the prosperity of the gallant Italian nation often trembled in the balance, for those polished floors formed the stage whereon some of the strangest of modern dramas were enacted.
Chapter Thirty.The Path of the Tempter.An hour had passed, and Mary, against her inclination, had danced with various partners, and had heard around her comments regarding her personal beauty and her dress such as always reached her ears on such occasions. Everyone courted and flattered her, for in that gay court circle she was one of its reigning queens. Yet the hot air stifled her; the mingled perfumes of flowers and chiffons nauseated her. She hated it all, and was longing to get away back to the solitude of her own room, where, after old Teresa had brushed her hair, she might sit in her big easy-chair and think.Blasé of life before her time, she was disappointed, world-weary, and heart-broken, although as yet only in her early womanhood. She had been dancing with the young Prince de Sarsina, a well-known figure in Roman society, and he had led her to a seat beside the old Duchess de Rovigor, when, in the lull of the music, those mysterious knocks were again repeated, and at the farther end of the ballroom there stood the black-habited royal chamberlain.There was silence at once. Then the royal official announced in Italian in a loud, ringing voice—“His Majesty the King!”And at the same moment a pair of long gilt and blue doors were flung open, and into the room there advanced the sovereign, a well-set-up, pleasant-faced figure with white moustache, before whom all bowed low three times in obeisance as he strode with regal gait into the centre of the enormous ballroom. In his splendid uniform outrivalling all, and wearing the grand crosses of the Crown of Italy, Maurice and Lazarus, and Savoy orders of which he was master, his figure presented a fitting centre to that brilliant assembly; and soon, when the obeisances were made and he had saluted in return, he moved away in conversation with Morini, who, as all were aware, was one of his most intimate friends.Then, when the queen, wearing her wonderful pearls, entered with the same ceremony, together with the Crown Prince and Princess of Naples, the orchestra struck up again and the revelry continued notwithstanding the presence of the sovereigns, who mixed freely with their guests and laughed and talked with them.Presently, as Mary on the arm of a partner was passing near to where Her Majesty was sitting upon the raised daïs at the end of the room, the queen suddenly beckoned to her, whereupon she left the man who was her escort, curtseyed as etiquette demanded, and approached the royal presence.“I only heard the news the day before yesterday on our return from Berlin,” exclaimed Her Majesty in English, with a kindly smile as the girl came up to her. “But of course your engagement scarcely comes as a surprise. Let me congratulate you. You must present the count to me at the first opportunity. Is he now in Rome?”“No, Madame,” was the girl’s blushing reply. “But I thank your Majesty for your kind thought of me.”“I wish you every happiness, my dear,” declared the queen, for Mary was an especial favourite with her. “Perhaps I may be able to attend your wedding. When will it be?”“In June, Madame.”“Very well. Give me good notice of the date, and I’ll see if I can come.” And then she dismissed the Minister’s daughter by turning to speak with one of her ladies-in-waiting who had returned from executing some commission upon which her royal mistress had sent her.What irony, thought the girl, as she curtseyed and left the royal the trap into which she had fallen!Through those high-roofed, magnificent chambers, with their wonderful friezes, priceless paintings, and gilt furniture, she wandered on, acknowledging greetings on every hand, yet only mechanically, for her thoughts were far away from that scene of royal revelry. The atmosphere held her asphyxiated, the music jarred upon her ears, and the gossip she heard on every side was for her devoid of all interest.One face alone arose before her amid that glittering throng, the face of the Englishman she had met so unexpectedly that morning—George Macbean.And why? She asked herself that question, and yet to it could give no direct response. His frank honesty of countenance and his muscular English form attracted her, but when the suggestion crossed her mind that she loved him, she laughed such an idea to scorn. They were comparative strangers, and she prided herself on being one who had never fallen into the error of affection at first sight as so many other girls did. Her character, it was true, was too well balanced for that.Yet the truth remained that all her thoughts that day had been of him.Both the Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, and old Prince Demidoff had grasped her hand and paid their compliments, while the princess managed to whisper in French, “I never saw you looking so well as to-night, my dear. That gown suits you admirably, and is by far the most striking here. One cannot wonder at Count Dubard’s choice. He has always been known in Paris as a connoisseur of beauty, you know,” and Her Excellency the Princess showed her yellow teeth in a broad grin at what she meant as humour.Wherever Mary went, half a dozen of the younger men followed in her train like bees about their queen. She laughed with them, made humorous remarks, and chatted to them with that air of bright, irresponsible gaiety by which she so cleverly concealed the heavy burden of grief and disappointment that filled her heart. In Roman society the younger men vied with each other to become friends of Mary Morini, hence at such functions as these they liked to be seen in her company, laughing or dancing with her.The young Duke di Forano, who had recently returned from Paris, where he had acted as first secretary of the Italian Embassy, had taken her in to supper in the huge winter garden where the tiny tables were set beneath the palms, and they had been waited upon by the royal servants. In the dim light of the Chinese lanterns the duke, an old friend, had taken her hand in his; but she had withdrawn it in indignation, saying—“You have no right to do that, now that I am engaged.”“Ah yes! of course,” he exclaimed, with a word of apology, at once interested. “I heard something about it in Paris, but quite forgot. Jules Dubard is the lucky fellow—isn’t he?”She nodded.And as she looked into his dark, well-cut features in the half-light she fancied she discerned a curious look, half of pity and half of surprise.“I hope you’ll be happy,” he remarked in a hard voice. “I always thought you would marry Solaro—poor devil! Do you remember him?”“Remember!” she echoed. “Yes; I recollect everything. You may well say ‘poor devil.’ He has been convicted of being a traitor—of selling army secrets to France.”“I know—I know,” answered her companion quickly. “We had all the papers concerning the charges through the Embassy, and I am aware of all the facts. My own idea is that he’s innocent, yet how can it be proved? He was betrayed by some heartless woman in Bologna, it seems. She made all sorts of charges against him.”“She lied!” cried Mary quickly. “He is innocent. I know he is, and some day I hope to be able to prove it.”“Ah, I wish I could help you!” was his fervent declaration. “He was my friend, you know. Perhaps the real truth may be known some day, but until then we can only wait, and he must bear his unjust punishment.”“But it is a crying scandal that he should have been degraded when he is innocent!” declared the daughter of the Minister of War.“Your father, no doubt, ordered the most searching inquiry. It is strange that, if he is really innocent, his innocence has not been proved.”“You are quite right,” she said. “That very fact is always puzzling me.”“There may be some reason why he has been consigned to prison,” remarked the diplomatist, thoughtfully twisting his champagne-glass by the stem, “some reason of State, of which we are ignorant.”“But my father would never willingly be party to such an injustice.”“Probably not; but what seems possible is that Solaro is held in prison by some power greater than your father’s—the power of your father’s enemies.”She thought deeply over those strange words of his. It almost seemed as though he were actually in possession of the truth, and yet feared to reveal it to her!Presently they rose again, and returned to where the cotillon had commenced. She did not take part in it, because her heart was too full for such frivolities. The young diplomatist had left her at a seat, when almost immediately her father’s enemy, Angelo Borselli, approached, and bowed low over her hand.She knew well how he had endeavoured to ruin and disgrace her father, and how he intended to hold the office of Minister himself; yet, owing to the instructions His Excellency had given her, she treated him with that clever diplomacy which is innate in woman. In common with her father, she never allowed him to discern that she entertained the slightest antipathy towards him, and treated him with calm dignity as she had always done.Borselli, in ignorance that the Minister was aware of all the ramifications of his shrewd scheming, still affected the same friendship for Morini and his family, and affected it with a marvellous verisimilitude of truth. One of the cleverest political schemers in Europe, he was unrivalled even by Vito Ricci, who in the past had performed marvels of political duplicity. Yet Mary’s tact was a match for him.Only three days ago she and her father had dined at his big new mansion in the Via Salaria, and neither man had betrayed any antagonism towards the other. It is often so in this modern world of ours. Men who inwardly hate each other are outwardly the best of friends. Neither Morini nor Mary had any trust in him, however, for both knew too well that he intended by some clevercoupone day to deal the blow and triumph as usurper. Yet both, while wary and silent, masked their true feelings of suspicion beneath the cloak of indifference and friendliness.Having taken a seat beside her, he began to gossip pleasantly, while his dark eyes were darting quick glances everywhere, when suddenly he asked—“Is not Jules here? I thought he was commanded here to-night.”“No. To the next ball. He is in Paris,” she said simply, without desire to discuss the man to whom she had engaged herself.“And you do not regret his absence—eh?” remarked the Sicilian in a low voice, bringing his sallow, sinister face nearer to hers.“I do not understand you,” she exclaimed, drawing herself up with some hauteur. “What is your insinuation?”“Nothing,” was his low response. “You need not be offended, for I do not mean it in that sense. I merely notice how you are enjoying yourself this evening during his absence, and the conclusion is but natural.” And his face relaxed into a smile.“Well,” she declared, as across her fair face fell a shadow of quick annoyance, “I consider, general, your remark entirely uncalled for.” And she rose stiffly to leave him.But he only smiled again, a strange, crafty smile, that rendered his thin, sallow face the more forbidding, as he answered in a low voice, speaking almost into her ear, and fixing his eyes on hers—“I may surely be forgiven as an old friend if I approach the truth in confidence, signora. You have accepted that man’s offer of marriage, but you have done so under direct compulsion. You desire to escape from your compact. You see I am aware of the whole truth. Well, there is one way by which you may escape. But recollect that what I tell you is in the strictest secrecy and confidence from your father—from everyone. I speak as your friend. There is a way by which you can avoid making this loveless alliance which is naturally distasteful to you—a way by which, if you choose to adopt it, you may save yourself!”She faced the man, her brown eyes meeting his in speechless surprise and wonder at his enigmatical words.What could he mean?
An hour had passed, and Mary, against her inclination, had danced with various partners, and had heard around her comments regarding her personal beauty and her dress such as always reached her ears on such occasions. Everyone courted and flattered her, for in that gay court circle she was one of its reigning queens. Yet the hot air stifled her; the mingled perfumes of flowers and chiffons nauseated her. She hated it all, and was longing to get away back to the solitude of her own room, where, after old Teresa had brushed her hair, she might sit in her big easy-chair and think.
Blasé of life before her time, she was disappointed, world-weary, and heart-broken, although as yet only in her early womanhood. She had been dancing with the young Prince de Sarsina, a well-known figure in Roman society, and he had led her to a seat beside the old Duchess de Rovigor, when, in the lull of the music, those mysterious knocks were again repeated, and at the farther end of the ballroom there stood the black-habited royal chamberlain.
There was silence at once. Then the royal official announced in Italian in a loud, ringing voice—
“His Majesty the King!”
And at the same moment a pair of long gilt and blue doors were flung open, and into the room there advanced the sovereign, a well-set-up, pleasant-faced figure with white moustache, before whom all bowed low three times in obeisance as he strode with regal gait into the centre of the enormous ballroom. In his splendid uniform outrivalling all, and wearing the grand crosses of the Crown of Italy, Maurice and Lazarus, and Savoy orders of which he was master, his figure presented a fitting centre to that brilliant assembly; and soon, when the obeisances were made and he had saluted in return, he moved away in conversation with Morini, who, as all were aware, was one of his most intimate friends.
Then, when the queen, wearing her wonderful pearls, entered with the same ceremony, together with the Crown Prince and Princess of Naples, the orchestra struck up again and the revelry continued notwithstanding the presence of the sovereigns, who mixed freely with their guests and laughed and talked with them.
Presently, as Mary on the arm of a partner was passing near to where Her Majesty was sitting upon the raised daïs at the end of the room, the queen suddenly beckoned to her, whereupon she left the man who was her escort, curtseyed as etiquette demanded, and approached the royal presence.
“I only heard the news the day before yesterday on our return from Berlin,” exclaimed Her Majesty in English, with a kindly smile as the girl came up to her. “But of course your engagement scarcely comes as a surprise. Let me congratulate you. You must present the count to me at the first opportunity. Is he now in Rome?”
“No, Madame,” was the girl’s blushing reply. “But I thank your Majesty for your kind thought of me.”
“I wish you every happiness, my dear,” declared the queen, for Mary was an especial favourite with her. “Perhaps I may be able to attend your wedding. When will it be?”
“In June, Madame.”
“Very well. Give me good notice of the date, and I’ll see if I can come.” And then she dismissed the Minister’s daughter by turning to speak with one of her ladies-in-waiting who had returned from executing some commission upon which her royal mistress had sent her.
What irony, thought the girl, as she curtseyed and left the royal the trap into which she had fallen!
Through those high-roofed, magnificent chambers, with their wonderful friezes, priceless paintings, and gilt furniture, she wandered on, acknowledging greetings on every hand, yet only mechanically, for her thoughts were far away from that scene of royal revelry. The atmosphere held her asphyxiated, the music jarred upon her ears, and the gossip she heard on every side was for her devoid of all interest.
One face alone arose before her amid that glittering throng, the face of the Englishman she had met so unexpectedly that morning—George Macbean.
And why? She asked herself that question, and yet to it could give no direct response. His frank honesty of countenance and his muscular English form attracted her, but when the suggestion crossed her mind that she loved him, she laughed such an idea to scorn. They were comparative strangers, and she prided herself on being one who had never fallen into the error of affection at first sight as so many other girls did. Her character, it was true, was too well balanced for that.
Yet the truth remained that all her thoughts that day had been of him.
Both the Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, and old Prince Demidoff had grasped her hand and paid their compliments, while the princess managed to whisper in French, “I never saw you looking so well as to-night, my dear. That gown suits you admirably, and is by far the most striking here. One cannot wonder at Count Dubard’s choice. He has always been known in Paris as a connoisseur of beauty, you know,” and Her Excellency the Princess showed her yellow teeth in a broad grin at what she meant as humour.
Wherever Mary went, half a dozen of the younger men followed in her train like bees about their queen. She laughed with them, made humorous remarks, and chatted to them with that air of bright, irresponsible gaiety by which she so cleverly concealed the heavy burden of grief and disappointment that filled her heart. In Roman society the younger men vied with each other to become friends of Mary Morini, hence at such functions as these they liked to be seen in her company, laughing or dancing with her.
The young Duke di Forano, who had recently returned from Paris, where he had acted as first secretary of the Italian Embassy, had taken her in to supper in the huge winter garden where the tiny tables were set beneath the palms, and they had been waited upon by the royal servants. In the dim light of the Chinese lanterns the duke, an old friend, had taken her hand in his; but she had withdrawn it in indignation, saying—
“You have no right to do that, now that I am engaged.”
“Ah yes! of course,” he exclaimed, with a word of apology, at once interested. “I heard something about it in Paris, but quite forgot. Jules Dubard is the lucky fellow—isn’t he?”
She nodded.
And as she looked into his dark, well-cut features in the half-light she fancied she discerned a curious look, half of pity and half of surprise.
“I hope you’ll be happy,” he remarked in a hard voice. “I always thought you would marry Solaro—poor devil! Do you remember him?”
“Remember!” she echoed. “Yes; I recollect everything. You may well say ‘poor devil.’ He has been convicted of being a traitor—of selling army secrets to France.”
“I know—I know,” answered her companion quickly. “We had all the papers concerning the charges through the Embassy, and I am aware of all the facts. My own idea is that he’s innocent, yet how can it be proved? He was betrayed by some heartless woman in Bologna, it seems. She made all sorts of charges against him.”
“She lied!” cried Mary quickly. “He is innocent. I know he is, and some day I hope to be able to prove it.”
“Ah, I wish I could help you!” was his fervent declaration. “He was my friend, you know. Perhaps the real truth may be known some day, but until then we can only wait, and he must bear his unjust punishment.”
“But it is a crying scandal that he should have been degraded when he is innocent!” declared the daughter of the Minister of War.
“Your father, no doubt, ordered the most searching inquiry. It is strange that, if he is really innocent, his innocence has not been proved.”
“You are quite right,” she said. “That very fact is always puzzling me.”
“There may be some reason why he has been consigned to prison,” remarked the diplomatist, thoughtfully twisting his champagne-glass by the stem, “some reason of State, of which we are ignorant.”
“But my father would never willingly be party to such an injustice.”
“Probably not; but what seems possible is that Solaro is held in prison by some power greater than your father’s—the power of your father’s enemies.”
She thought deeply over those strange words of his. It almost seemed as though he were actually in possession of the truth, and yet feared to reveal it to her!
Presently they rose again, and returned to where the cotillon had commenced. She did not take part in it, because her heart was too full for such frivolities. The young diplomatist had left her at a seat, when almost immediately her father’s enemy, Angelo Borselli, approached, and bowed low over her hand.
She knew well how he had endeavoured to ruin and disgrace her father, and how he intended to hold the office of Minister himself; yet, owing to the instructions His Excellency had given her, she treated him with that clever diplomacy which is innate in woman. In common with her father, she never allowed him to discern that she entertained the slightest antipathy towards him, and treated him with calm dignity as she had always done.
Borselli, in ignorance that the Minister was aware of all the ramifications of his shrewd scheming, still affected the same friendship for Morini and his family, and affected it with a marvellous verisimilitude of truth. One of the cleverest political schemers in Europe, he was unrivalled even by Vito Ricci, who in the past had performed marvels of political duplicity. Yet Mary’s tact was a match for him.
Only three days ago she and her father had dined at his big new mansion in the Via Salaria, and neither man had betrayed any antagonism towards the other. It is often so in this modern world of ours. Men who inwardly hate each other are outwardly the best of friends. Neither Morini nor Mary had any trust in him, however, for both knew too well that he intended by some clevercoupone day to deal the blow and triumph as usurper. Yet both, while wary and silent, masked their true feelings of suspicion beneath the cloak of indifference and friendliness.
Having taken a seat beside her, he began to gossip pleasantly, while his dark eyes were darting quick glances everywhere, when suddenly he asked—
“Is not Jules here? I thought he was commanded here to-night.”
“No. To the next ball. He is in Paris,” she said simply, without desire to discuss the man to whom she had engaged herself.
“And you do not regret his absence—eh?” remarked the Sicilian in a low voice, bringing his sallow, sinister face nearer to hers.
“I do not understand you,” she exclaimed, drawing herself up with some hauteur. “What is your insinuation?”
“Nothing,” was his low response. “You need not be offended, for I do not mean it in that sense. I merely notice how you are enjoying yourself this evening during his absence, and the conclusion is but natural.” And his face relaxed into a smile.
“Well,” she declared, as across her fair face fell a shadow of quick annoyance, “I consider, general, your remark entirely uncalled for.” And she rose stiffly to leave him.
But he only smiled again, a strange, crafty smile, that rendered his thin, sallow face the more forbidding, as he answered in a low voice, speaking almost into her ear, and fixing his eyes on hers—
“I may surely be forgiven as an old friend if I approach the truth in confidence, signora. You have accepted that man’s offer of marriage, but you have done so under direct compulsion. You desire to escape from your compact. You see I am aware of the whole truth. Well, there is one way by which you may escape. But recollect that what I tell you is in the strictest secrecy and confidence from your father—from everyone. I speak as your friend. There is a way by which you can avoid making this loveless alliance which is naturally distasteful to you—a way by which, if you choose to adopt it, you may save yourself!”
She faced the man, her brown eyes meeting his in speechless surprise and wonder at his enigmatical words.
What could he mean?
Chapter Thirty One.In which a Double Game is Played.“I do not quite follow you, general,” faltered Mary after a brief pause, regarding him with a puzzled air.“Then let us find a quiet corner where we can be alone, and I will explain,” said Borselli, rising and offering the girl his arm. Both were well acquainted with all the ramifications of the splendid state apartments, the ante-chambers, the winter garden, and the corridors, therefore he led her through the Throne Room to a small apartment at the rear of the Hall of the Princess, an elegant little room hung with pale green silk and the gilt furniture of which bore embroidered on the backs of the chairs the royal crown with the black eagle and white cross of Savoy.So cleverly did Angelo Borselli conceal his schemes and his hatreds that through years he had deceived so shrewd and far-seeing a man as his chief Morini. His insinuating address and rather handsome exterior rendered him, if not welcome in Roman society, at least tolerated, more especially as through him recommendations could be made to Morini, whose word was law on every point concerning the army of Italy. A certain degree of suspicion and some feeling of awe attended him, though it was rather in his absence than his presence, for his ready wit and fluent conversation were not calculated to inspire other than agreeable thoughts.It was only as he cast himself into a chair at her side, hesitating how to put the matter before her, that in the glance of his dark, sparkling, deeply set eyes might have been detected a sinister motive and a searching and eager expression at variance with the frank and joyous manner of a moment before.That glance betrayed the depth of the man’s cunning.“You have no love for Dubard,” he remarked slowly. “I have watched, and I have seen it plainly. Yet you are engaged to him because he has compelled you to accept him as your husband. He holds a certain power over you—when he orders you dare not disobey! Am I not correct?” he asked, looking straight into her brown, wide-open eyes.She nodded in the affirmative, and a slight sigh escaped her. She was suspicious of him, but did not recognise the trend of his argument.“Then let us advance a step further,” he said, in the same quiet, serious manner. “It is but natural you desire to escape from him. He is repugnant to you; perhaps you loathe him, and yet you wear a mask of pretended happiness! Surely you cannot take up life beside a husband whom you secretly despise! You are a woman who desires to love and be loved, a woman who should marry a man worthy your reverence and self-sacrifice,” he added, in a voice which seemed to her full of a genuine solicitude for her future.His attitude was full of mystery. The sudden interest which he—her father’s bitterest enemy—betrayed on her behalf was inexplicable.“Well,” she faltered at last, “and if I really desire to break off my engagement with the count? What course do you suggest?”“You must break your engagement, signorina,” he exclaimed quickly. “For several weeks I have desired to speak plainly and frankly to you, but I feared that certain distorted facts having perhaps come to your ears, you might treat me as your enemy rather than your friend. But to-night, finding you alone, I resolved to speak, and, if possible, to save you from sacrificing yourself to a man so unworthy of you.”“But I always thought he was your friend!” she exclaimed in surprise, looking straight at the man before her and toying with her big feathered fan.“We are friends. We have been guests together under your father’s roof in England, you will remember,” he admitted. “Yet I entertain too much respect for your father and his family to stand by and see you become the victim of such a man as Jules Dubard.”“You are his friend, and yet you speak evil of him behind his back!” she remarked.“No, I do not speak evil in the least. You misunderstand my motive. It is in the interests of your own well-being and future happiness. We must not allow that man to force you into an odious union. He is clever, but you must outwit him. Your duty to yourself is to do so.”“But how can I?” she asked, with a desperation in her voice that came involuntarily, but which revealed to Borselli her eagerness to escape from the web which Dubard had weaved about her.The future of that beautiful girl, the most admired of all that brilliant throng at court, was the future of Italy. Angelo Borselli knew it, and recognised what an important part that handsome daughter of the Minister was destined to play.“There is one way—only one way,” he answered, bending towards her, speaking confidentially, and keeping his deep-set eyes fixed upon hers. “The man Dubard has very cleverly succeeded in forcing you to accept him as husband. But you must escape from your present peril by revealing the truth.”“The truth of what?”“The truth of that man’s motives.”“But they are all a mystery. How can I ascertain the truth?”“There is one man who knows—one man who, if he chose to speak, could at once give you freedom.”“But who is he?” she inquired eagerly.“Felice Solaro—your friend.”“Solaro!” she gasped. “But he is in prison in Turin, condemned for fifteen years for treason!”“For an offence of which he is not guilty,” declared the Under-Secretary quickly.“Ah! And that is your opinion, as mine, general!” she cried eagerly. “I know he is innocent.”“Then secure his release. Persuade your father to sign a decree reversing the finding of the court-martial, and he, in turn, can save you from falling victim to this man to whom you are giving yourself in marriage.”Angelo Borselli met her piercing glance unmoved. She seemed to be trying to divine the schemer’s secret thoughts.“You will do this—for your own sake,” he whispered earnestly. “It is unjust that the poor captain should be kept in prison for a crime of which he is innocent.”“But if you know that he is not guilty, why have you not already used your own influence as Under-Secretary to secure his release?” she asked, with distinct suspicion, a thousand uneasy thoughts agitating her bosom.“Because I am powerless. It is only His Excellency, your father, who can sign decrees,” was his reply, adding, “I have more than once directed his attention to the act of gross injustice, but his reply has in each case been the same—namely, that he had examined the evidence, and that he could discover no doubt about the captain’s culpability in selling the secrets of Tresenta and of our mobilisation scheme for the protection of the French frontier. Both secrets actually reached the Intelligence Department of the French Ministry of War, for that has been proved beyond doubt by our secret agents in Paris; and, further, they passed through the hands of a lady friend of Solaro’s—Filoména Nodari.”“Where is that woman now? Still in Bologna?”“No, I think not,” was his reply, without, however, telling her how he had taken the woman into his service and sent her to England. “I learned a short time ago that she had left, and gone abroad.”“It was through her false evidence that Felice was convicted. She told foul untruths concerning him,” his companion cried angrily.“I know. Perhaps it is owing to fear of the truth being exposed that she has left Bologna. But in any case, it is only common justice that poor Solaro should be released. He has never had a chance of a proper appeal—your father refused it to him.”“But why? Has my father any reason why the poor fellow should be kept in prison?”Angelo Borselli raised his shoulders and exhibited his palms in a gesture more forcible than mere words.“And if he has, then how can I hope to succeed in turning his favour towards the accused man?”“Try. Do your utmost, signorina,” he urged, with perhaps more eagerness than was really warrantable in such circumstances. “Appeal to your father’s sense of justice, to his honour, to his reputation as one always ready to redress wrongs. You, as his daughter, can accomplish everything if you wish—even the freedom of Felice Solaro.”“And if I do?”“Then he will speak the truth, and you need have no fear of the man who has so cleverly entrapped you into this engagement. When the truth is out he will at once relinquish his claim to your hand.”She hesitated. She was wondering whether the crafty statesman who had risen by her father’s favours was really aware of the secret compact she had made with Dubard; whether he knew that she had given her hand to him in exchange for his protection of her father’s honour.Jules had seen her a few days after the curious scene in the Chamber of Deputies. He had come to her to receive the payment he had demanded in the shape of a formal engagement of marriage. But he had told her nothing concerning the manner in which he had managed to avert the crisis, and she only knew the story of the letter to Montebruno through Vito Ricci, her father’s spy. She was unaware of Jules’ visit to the man now before her, or of his threat to make revelations if the fatal question were asked in the Chamber.Women of Mary Morini’s type rise to higher heights of sacrifice and, when determined, act with a courage rare among men. She is herself in a thousand ways men never dare to be, and a fine woman is worth a hundred of the finest men.“But if you are really speaking in my own interests as my friend, general, why cannot you furnish me with the weapon by which I can defend myself from him?” she suggested at last.“For two reasons. First, your parents, ignorant of the real facts, are delighted at the prospect of your marriage; secondly, Solaro alone holds the truth. He can speak and prove his facts.”“Regarding what?”“Regarding Jules Dubard.”“Regarding the man whom you still allege is your friend? Really, general, the manner in which you exhibit friendship towards others is a rather curious one, if this is an example of it?”He was unprepared for such a remark from her. But it showed him, nevertheless, how frank and fearless she had become.“I merely offer you my advice, signorina,” he answered, shifting slightly in his chair and settling his sword. “It is surely a thousand pities that you should become the victim of a man of Dubard’s stamp when, by a little clever manoeuvring, you may not only do an act of justice by freeing poor Solaro, but also free yourself from the engagement into which you have entered against your will.”“But you tell me that my father has already refused to release the captain?” she remarked, regarding him with a puzzled air. “If this is so, then what can I do further?”“Persuade him. You alone can induce him to act as you desire. Recollect that upon that man’s liberty your own future depends.”The Sicilian, careful student of the human character as he was, knew well that a generous, magnanimous woman, like the one before him, is more ingenious and confident in well-doing than any man. He had carefully watched her, and by means of his secret agents knew that she entertained no love for the man to whom she had become engaged. Therefore, with his unequalled cunning, he had devised a fresh means of making hiscoupand attaining his end in spite of Jules Dubard.He watched her beautiful countenance, and saw that his words had created an impression. A grave injustice had been done in degrading and imprisoning the handsome young captain who had once admired her so, and he knew that she would seek to remedy it. He had given her a strong and direct motive for securing Solaro’s release—her own liberty.“Very well,” she sighed at last. “I thank you, general, for speaking to me so frankly. I will see what I can do in order to obtain a pardon for him. But if I do, will you promise to assist me in the matter which concerns me personally?”“I promise you that Solaro shall tell the truth; that on the day following his release you shall be placed in a position to defy this man who believes that you have fallen his victim. Do you agree?”She was silent for a moment, still distrustful of the man who had so narrowly encompassed her father’s downfall. Yet she recollected that the face of politics changes quickly, and in a low voice and with sudden resolution answered—“I do.”He stretched forth his white gloved hand, and without further word she took it in pledge of good faith. She had in her desperation made terms with the enemy, and as the Under-Secretary rose to escort her back through the gay assembly in the state-rooms, a faint, good-humoured smile flitted across his sallow features.He felt confident that his craft and cunning must succeed—that she would obtain Solaro’s release, and then the triumph for which he had so long and patiently waited would be his.True, the fate of men’s lives and nations’ destinies was often juggled with in those great gilded halls where the air was heavy with perfume, the ear charmed with delightful music, and the eye dazzled by the glitter of that brilliant court, every member of which, man or woman, schemed, struggled, and intrigued to satisfy their own vices or their own ambitions.
“I do not quite follow you, general,” faltered Mary after a brief pause, regarding him with a puzzled air.
“Then let us find a quiet corner where we can be alone, and I will explain,” said Borselli, rising and offering the girl his arm. Both were well acquainted with all the ramifications of the splendid state apartments, the ante-chambers, the winter garden, and the corridors, therefore he led her through the Throne Room to a small apartment at the rear of the Hall of the Princess, an elegant little room hung with pale green silk and the gilt furniture of which bore embroidered on the backs of the chairs the royal crown with the black eagle and white cross of Savoy.
So cleverly did Angelo Borselli conceal his schemes and his hatreds that through years he had deceived so shrewd and far-seeing a man as his chief Morini. His insinuating address and rather handsome exterior rendered him, if not welcome in Roman society, at least tolerated, more especially as through him recommendations could be made to Morini, whose word was law on every point concerning the army of Italy. A certain degree of suspicion and some feeling of awe attended him, though it was rather in his absence than his presence, for his ready wit and fluent conversation were not calculated to inspire other than agreeable thoughts.
It was only as he cast himself into a chair at her side, hesitating how to put the matter before her, that in the glance of his dark, sparkling, deeply set eyes might have been detected a sinister motive and a searching and eager expression at variance with the frank and joyous manner of a moment before.
That glance betrayed the depth of the man’s cunning.
“You have no love for Dubard,” he remarked slowly. “I have watched, and I have seen it plainly. Yet you are engaged to him because he has compelled you to accept him as your husband. He holds a certain power over you—when he orders you dare not disobey! Am I not correct?” he asked, looking straight into her brown, wide-open eyes.
She nodded in the affirmative, and a slight sigh escaped her. She was suspicious of him, but did not recognise the trend of his argument.
“Then let us advance a step further,” he said, in the same quiet, serious manner. “It is but natural you desire to escape from him. He is repugnant to you; perhaps you loathe him, and yet you wear a mask of pretended happiness! Surely you cannot take up life beside a husband whom you secretly despise! You are a woman who desires to love and be loved, a woman who should marry a man worthy your reverence and self-sacrifice,” he added, in a voice which seemed to her full of a genuine solicitude for her future.
His attitude was full of mystery. The sudden interest which he—her father’s bitterest enemy—betrayed on her behalf was inexplicable.
“Well,” she faltered at last, “and if I really desire to break off my engagement with the count? What course do you suggest?”
“You must break your engagement, signorina,” he exclaimed quickly. “For several weeks I have desired to speak plainly and frankly to you, but I feared that certain distorted facts having perhaps come to your ears, you might treat me as your enemy rather than your friend. But to-night, finding you alone, I resolved to speak, and, if possible, to save you from sacrificing yourself to a man so unworthy of you.”
“But I always thought he was your friend!” she exclaimed in surprise, looking straight at the man before her and toying with her big feathered fan.
“We are friends. We have been guests together under your father’s roof in England, you will remember,” he admitted. “Yet I entertain too much respect for your father and his family to stand by and see you become the victim of such a man as Jules Dubard.”
“You are his friend, and yet you speak evil of him behind his back!” she remarked.
“No, I do not speak evil in the least. You misunderstand my motive. It is in the interests of your own well-being and future happiness. We must not allow that man to force you into an odious union. He is clever, but you must outwit him. Your duty to yourself is to do so.”
“But how can I?” she asked, with a desperation in her voice that came involuntarily, but which revealed to Borselli her eagerness to escape from the web which Dubard had weaved about her.
The future of that beautiful girl, the most admired of all that brilliant throng at court, was the future of Italy. Angelo Borselli knew it, and recognised what an important part that handsome daughter of the Minister was destined to play.
“There is one way—only one way,” he answered, bending towards her, speaking confidentially, and keeping his deep-set eyes fixed upon hers. “The man Dubard has very cleverly succeeded in forcing you to accept him as husband. But you must escape from your present peril by revealing the truth.”
“The truth of what?”
“The truth of that man’s motives.”
“But they are all a mystery. How can I ascertain the truth?”
“There is one man who knows—one man who, if he chose to speak, could at once give you freedom.”
“But who is he?” she inquired eagerly.
“Felice Solaro—your friend.”
“Solaro!” she gasped. “But he is in prison in Turin, condemned for fifteen years for treason!”
“For an offence of which he is not guilty,” declared the Under-Secretary quickly.
“Ah! And that is your opinion, as mine, general!” she cried eagerly. “I know he is innocent.”
“Then secure his release. Persuade your father to sign a decree reversing the finding of the court-martial, and he, in turn, can save you from falling victim to this man to whom you are giving yourself in marriage.”
Angelo Borselli met her piercing glance unmoved. She seemed to be trying to divine the schemer’s secret thoughts.
“You will do this—for your own sake,” he whispered earnestly. “It is unjust that the poor captain should be kept in prison for a crime of which he is innocent.”
“But if you know that he is not guilty, why have you not already used your own influence as Under-Secretary to secure his release?” she asked, with distinct suspicion, a thousand uneasy thoughts agitating her bosom.
“Because I am powerless. It is only His Excellency, your father, who can sign decrees,” was his reply, adding, “I have more than once directed his attention to the act of gross injustice, but his reply has in each case been the same—namely, that he had examined the evidence, and that he could discover no doubt about the captain’s culpability in selling the secrets of Tresenta and of our mobilisation scheme for the protection of the French frontier. Both secrets actually reached the Intelligence Department of the French Ministry of War, for that has been proved beyond doubt by our secret agents in Paris; and, further, they passed through the hands of a lady friend of Solaro’s—Filoména Nodari.”
“Where is that woman now? Still in Bologna?”
“No, I think not,” was his reply, without, however, telling her how he had taken the woman into his service and sent her to England. “I learned a short time ago that she had left, and gone abroad.”
“It was through her false evidence that Felice was convicted. She told foul untruths concerning him,” his companion cried angrily.
“I know. Perhaps it is owing to fear of the truth being exposed that she has left Bologna. But in any case, it is only common justice that poor Solaro should be released. He has never had a chance of a proper appeal—your father refused it to him.”
“But why? Has my father any reason why the poor fellow should be kept in prison?”
Angelo Borselli raised his shoulders and exhibited his palms in a gesture more forcible than mere words.
“And if he has, then how can I hope to succeed in turning his favour towards the accused man?”
“Try. Do your utmost, signorina,” he urged, with perhaps more eagerness than was really warrantable in such circumstances. “Appeal to your father’s sense of justice, to his honour, to his reputation as one always ready to redress wrongs. You, as his daughter, can accomplish everything if you wish—even the freedom of Felice Solaro.”
“And if I do?”
“Then he will speak the truth, and you need have no fear of the man who has so cleverly entrapped you into this engagement. When the truth is out he will at once relinquish his claim to your hand.”
She hesitated. She was wondering whether the crafty statesman who had risen by her father’s favours was really aware of the secret compact she had made with Dubard; whether he knew that she had given her hand to him in exchange for his protection of her father’s honour.
Jules had seen her a few days after the curious scene in the Chamber of Deputies. He had come to her to receive the payment he had demanded in the shape of a formal engagement of marriage. But he had told her nothing concerning the manner in which he had managed to avert the crisis, and she only knew the story of the letter to Montebruno through Vito Ricci, her father’s spy. She was unaware of Jules’ visit to the man now before her, or of his threat to make revelations if the fatal question were asked in the Chamber.
Women of Mary Morini’s type rise to higher heights of sacrifice and, when determined, act with a courage rare among men. She is herself in a thousand ways men never dare to be, and a fine woman is worth a hundred of the finest men.
“But if you are really speaking in my own interests as my friend, general, why cannot you furnish me with the weapon by which I can defend myself from him?” she suggested at last.
“For two reasons. First, your parents, ignorant of the real facts, are delighted at the prospect of your marriage; secondly, Solaro alone holds the truth. He can speak and prove his facts.”
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding Jules Dubard.”
“Regarding the man whom you still allege is your friend? Really, general, the manner in which you exhibit friendship towards others is a rather curious one, if this is an example of it?”
He was unprepared for such a remark from her. But it showed him, nevertheless, how frank and fearless she had become.
“I merely offer you my advice, signorina,” he answered, shifting slightly in his chair and settling his sword. “It is surely a thousand pities that you should become the victim of a man of Dubard’s stamp when, by a little clever manoeuvring, you may not only do an act of justice by freeing poor Solaro, but also free yourself from the engagement into which you have entered against your will.”
“But you tell me that my father has already refused to release the captain?” she remarked, regarding him with a puzzled air. “If this is so, then what can I do further?”
“Persuade him. You alone can induce him to act as you desire. Recollect that upon that man’s liberty your own future depends.”
The Sicilian, careful student of the human character as he was, knew well that a generous, magnanimous woman, like the one before him, is more ingenious and confident in well-doing than any man. He had carefully watched her, and by means of his secret agents knew that she entertained no love for the man to whom she had become engaged. Therefore, with his unequalled cunning, he had devised a fresh means of making hiscoupand attaining his end in spite of Jules Dubard.
He watched her beautiful countenance, and saw that his words had created an impression. A grave injustice had been done in degrading and imprisoning the handsome young captain who had once admired her so, and he knew that she would seek to remedy it. He had given her a strong and direct motive for securing Solaro’s release—her own liberty.
“Very well,” she sighed at last. “I thank you, general, for speaking to me so frankly. I will see what I can do in order to obtain a pardon for him. But if I do, will you promise to assist me in the matter which concerns me personally?”
“I promise you that Solaro shall tell the truth; that on the day following his release you shall be placed in a position to defy this man who believes that you have fallen his victim. Do you agree?”
She was silent for a moment, still distrustful of the man who had so narrowly encompassed her father’s downfall. Yet she recollected that the face of politics changes quickly, and in a low voice and with sudden resolution answered—
“I do.”
He stretched forth his white gloved hand, and without further word she took it in pledge of good faith. She had in her desperation made terms with the enemy, and as the Under-Secretary rose to escort her back through the gay assembly in the state-rooms, a faint, good-humoured smile flitted across his sallow features.
He felt confident that his craft and cunning must succeed—that she would obtain Solaro’s release, and then the triumph for which he had so long and patiently waited would be his.
True, the fate of men’s lives and nations’ destinies was often juggled with in those great gilded halls where the air was heavy with perfume, the ear charmed with delightful music, and the eye dazzled by the glitter of that brilliant court, every member of which, man or woman, schemed, struggled, and intrigued to satisfy their own vices or their own ambitions.
Chapter Thirty Two.The Birth of Love.George and Mary met frequently in the days that followed. His Excellency was still suffering from an attack of that prostrating malady Roman fever, and George, as his private secretary, was daily in attendance upon him.Morini liked the young man for his honest English sturdiness of character, his diligent application to his duties, and his enthusiasm for all that was beneficial to the army. He had quickly picked up his duties, and already the Minister of War found his assistance indispensable.He worked a good deal in the big old library of the palace, wherein the Minister’s daughter and wife often entered to salute him and sometimes to give him an invitation to remain to luncheon, when the conversation would generally be upon English matters in general and things at Orton and Thornby in particular. Both mother and daughter delighted in their English home, and always regretted leaving it for that fevered existence they were compelled to lead continually in the Italian capital.Mary was already engaged, otherwise neither Morini nor his wife would probably have allowed the two young people to be thrown so constantly into each other’s society. Thus, however, the bond of friendship gradually became strengthened between them, he loving her fondly in secret, while she regarded him as a man in whom she might one day confide. She had no friend in whom she could trust, save her father. Amid her thousand acquaintances in that brilliant world around the throne there was not one who would not betray her confidence at the moment any profit might be made out of it. Therefore she kept herself to herself, and mixed with them only as etiquette or her father’s policy demanded.George Macbean was, on his part, filled with wonder. She was actually to marry Jules Dubard—that man of all men!Surely her parents were in ignorance of who and what the fellow had been; surely by his clever cunning and shrewd manoeuvring he had misled even the sharp-eyed Minister himself, and induced him to give his consent to his daughter’s marriage.He pitied Mary—pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He knew that there must be some secret which she held and would not divulge; for if not, why should she regard her forthcoming marriage with such a lack of enthusiasm—why, indeed, should she purposely abstain from discussing Dubard? He closely watched her, and recognised how she had sadly changed since those bright days at Orton. Upon her brow was now a settled expression of deep thought and sadness, and when she thought herself unobserved a low sigh would sometimes escape, her, as though her thoughts were bitter ones.Was it possible that she suspected the truth concerning Jules Dubard? Was it even possible that she was marrying him under compulsion?In the silence of his own apartment he sat for hours, smoking his English pipe and wondering, while the babel of sounds of the foreign city came up from the street below. How strange were the ways of the world, how bitter the ironies of life! He loved her—ah yes! He loved her with all the passion of his soul, with all the deep and earnest devotion of which an honest man is capable. Yet, poor as he was, merely her father’s underling, how could he ever hope to gain her hand? No, he sighed day after day, it was hopeless—utterly hopeless. Hers was to be a marriage of convenience—she was to wed Dubard, and become a countess.But if he only dared to speak! He might save her—but at what cost? His own disgrace and ruin.And he bit his lip to the blood.Fortune had lifted him out of the drudgery of Morgan-Mason’s service and brought him there to Rome, to a position of confidence envied by ten thousand others. Could he possibly sacrifice his future, his very life, just as it had suddenly opened up to him?And he pondered on, meeting her, talking with her, and each hour falling deeper under the spell of her marvellous grace and beauty.Mary, on her part, was full of thought. A frightful gulf was opened before her; she could not fly from its brink; she was goaded onwards though she saw it yawning beneath her feet.While sitting alone with her father in his room one evening she approached the subject of Felice Solaro; but he instantly poured forth such a flood of invectives upon the condemned man that she was compelled to at once change the subject. To her it seemed that for some unaccountable reason he was prejudiced against the imprisoned man, and anything she might say in his favour only served to condemn him the more.On looking back upon the past, she found that she had regarded love as a matter of everyday occurrence. She heard of it, saw it wherever she moved; every man who approached her either felt or feigned it; and so accustomed was she to homage and devotion that its absence alone attracted her attention. She had considered it part of her state—and yet of the real nature of true affection she had been perfectly unconscious.She had more than once imagined herself in love, as in the case of Felice Solaro, mistaking gratified vanity for a deeper emotion—had felt pleasure in the presence of its object, and regret in absence; but that was a pastime and no more—until now.But now! She held within her heart a deep secret—the secret of her love.And this rendered her future all the more serious—her marriage all the more a fearful undertaking. She had no escape from her fate; she must marry a man who at least was indifferent to her. Could she ever suffer herself to be decked for this unpromising bridal, this union with a man who at heart was the enemy of her family and whom she hated?One evening she again met George Macbean. He had returned from Naples, where he had executed a commission given him by the Minister, and had reported to his chief his visit to the commandant of the military district. He afterwards sat with Mary and her mother in one of the smaller reception-rooms of the ponderous old mansion. Mary, who was in a black dinner-dress slightlydécolleté, took up her mandoline—the instrument of which he was so fond—and sang the old Tuscan song, in which, with his heart so overburdened, he discerned a hidden meaning—“Io questa notte in sogno l’ho veduto,Era vestito tutto di broccato;Le piume sul berretto di velluto,Ed una spada d’oro aveva allato.E poi m’ha detto con un bel sorriso.Io non posso piu star da te diviso!Da te diviso non ci posso stare,E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!”These words sank as iron into his soul. Did she, he wondered, really reciprocate his concealed and unexpressed feelings? Ah no, it was impossible—all impossible.And when she had laid aside her instrument, he commenced to describe to them the grand review of troops which he had witnessed outside Naples that morning, and how the general staff had treated him as an honoured guest.“Ah!” sighed Madame Morini. “If we were to tell the truth, Mr Macbean, both Mary and I are tired of the very sight of uniforms and the sound of military music. Wherever my husband goes in Italy a review is always included in the programme, and we have to endure the heat and the dust of the march past. Once, when I was first married, I delighted in all the glitter and display of armed forces, but nowadays I long and ever long for retirement at dear old Orton.”“And so do I,” declared her daughter quickly. “When I was at school in England I used to look forward to the day when I would be presented at the Quirinale and enter Roman society. But oh, the weariness of it all! I have already become sick of its glare, its uncharitableness, and its intrigues. England—yes—give me dear England, or else the quiet of San Donato. You have never been there yet, Mr Macbean,” she added, looking into his face. “When you do go, you will find it more quiet and more beautiful than Orton.”“I have no doubt,” he said. “If it is in the Arno valley, I know how beautiful the country is there, having passed up and down from Pisa many times. Those are photographs of it in madame’s boudoir—are they not?”“Oh yes. Ah! then you’ve noticed them,” she exclaimed. “It is a delightful old place, is it not?” His eyes were fixed upon hers, and he read in their dark depths the burden of sorrow that was there. Dubard was due back in Rome, but he had not returned, nor had she mentioned the reason. He wished to meet him—to observe what effect his presence would have upon that man who had robbed him of all the happiness of life.The chiming of the little French clock reminded him that it was the hour to take his leave, therefore he rose, grasped the hands of the grave, kind-faced Englishwoman and her daughter, and went forth into the old-world street, striding blindly on towards his own rooms.“Really a delightful fellow,” remarked her mother when the door had closed behind him. “His English manners are refreshing after those of all the apeish young fools whom we are compelled for the sake of policy to entertain. But,” she added, with a laugh, suddenly recollecting, “I ought not to say that, my dear, now that you are to marry a Frenchman. I married an Italian, and as far as my choice of a husband has gone, I am thankful to say I have never regretted it—even though our natures and our religions are different.”“I will never become a Catholic—never!” declared Mary decisively. “I do not, and I shall never, believe in the confessional.”“Nor do I,” responded her mother. “But there is no need for you to change your religion. The count has already told me that he has no such desire. By the way, he was due back the day before yesterday. Why has he not returned?”“I heard from him yesterday. He has gone down to the Pyrenees—on business connected with the estate, he says;” and then, after some further gossip regarding a charity bazaar at the German Embassy, at which they were to hold a stall on the morrow, the unhappy girl rose, and with uneven steps went along the gloomy, echoing corridors to her own room.Teresa brushed her long brown tresses as she sat before her long mirror looking at the reflection of her pale face and wondering if the young Englishman guessed the truth. Then as soon as possible she dismissed her faithful serving-woman, and still sat in her chair, her mind occupied by a thousand thoughts which chased each other in quick succession.One thought, in spite of all her efforts, she was unable to banish; it returned again and again, and would intrude in spite of her struggles to suppress it—the image of George Macbean, the man who had so suddenly become her friend.The night wore on, and in the silence of her pretty chamber she wept for some time, abandoning herself to melancholy fancies; at length, reproaching herself for thus permitting sorrow to usurp the place of that resignation which the pure faith she had adopted ought to inspire, she threw herself upon her knees and offered to Heaven the homage of an afflicted and innocent heart.As she rose from her knees the church bells of Rome were chiming one. She shuddered at the solemn stroke, for every hour seemed to bring her nearer the terrible self-sacrifice which she was compelled to make for her father’s sake. Her fears had risen almost to distraction, and she had wept and prayed alternately in all the agonies of anxiety.The truth that had now forced itself upon her held her aghast, immovable. She loved George Macbean. Yes, she murmured his name aloud, and her words sounded weird and distinct in the silence of the night.Yet if she withdrew from her unholy agreement with the man who had forced her to give her promise, then the hounds of destruction would be let loose upon her house.And her father? She had discovered in the drawer of his carved writing-table at San Donato that tiny tube of innocent-looking tabloids; and though she kept the secret to herself, she had guessed his intention.Could she deliberately allow him to sacrifice his life when there was still a means open whereby to save him?She sank again upon her knees by the bedside, and greyed long for Divine help and deliverance.
George and Mary met frequently in the days that followed. His Excellency was still suffering from an attack of that prostrating malady Roman fever, and George, as his private secretary, was daily in attendance upon him.
Morini liked the young man for his honest English sturdiness of character, his diligent application to his duties, and his enthusiasm for all that was beneficial to the army. He had quickly picked up his duties, and already the Minister of War found his assistance indispensable.
He worked a good deal in the big old library of the palace, wherein the Minister’s daughter and wife often entered to salute him and sometimes to give him an invitation to remain to luncheon, when the conversation would generally be upon English matters in general and things at Orton and Thornby in particular. Both mother and daughter delighted in their English home, and always regretted leaving it for that fevered existence they were compelled to lead continually in the Italian capital.
Mary was already engaged, otherwise neither Morini nor his wife would probably have allowed the two young people to be thrown so constantly into each other’s society. Thus, however, the bond of friendship gradually became strengthened between them, he loving her fondly in secret, while she regarded him as a man in whom she might one day confide. She had no friend in whom she could trust, save her father. Amid her thousand acquaintances in that brilliant world around the throne there was not one who would not betray her confidence at the moment any profit might be made out of it. Therefore she kept herself to herself, and mixed with them only as etiquette or her father’s policy demanded.
George Macbean was, on his part, filled with wonder. She was actually to marry Jules Dubard—that man of all men!
Surely her parents were in ignorance of who and what the fellow had been; surely by his clever cunning and shrewd manoeuvring he had misled even the sharp-eyed Minister himself, and induced him to give his consent to his daughter’s marriage.
He pitied Mary—pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He knew that there must be some secret which she held and would not divulge; for if not, why should she regard her forthcoming marriage with such a lack of enthusiasm—why, indeed, should she purposely abstain from discussing Dubard? He closely watched her, and recognised how she had sadly changed since those bright days at Orton. Upon her brow was now a settled expression of deep thought and sadness, and when she thought herself unobserved a low sigh would sometimes escape, her, as though her thoughts were bitter ones.
Was it possible that she suspected the truth concerning Jules Dubard? Was it even possible that she was marrying him under compulsion?
In the silence of his own apartment he sat for hours, smoking his English pipe and wondering, while the babel of sounds of the foreign city came up from the street below. How strange were the ways of the world, how bitter the ironies of life! He loved her—ah yes! He loved her with all the passion of his soul, with all the deep and earnest devotion of which an honest man is capable. Yet, poor as he was, merely her father’s underling, how could he ever hope to gain her hand? No, he sighed day after day, it was hopeless—utterly hopeless. Hers was to be a marriage of convenience—she was to wed Dubard, and become a countess.
But if he only dared to speak! He might save her—but at what cost? His own disgrace and ruin.
And he bit his lip to the blood.
Fortune had lifted him out of the drudgery of Morgan-Mason’s service and brought him there to Rome, to a position of confidence envied by ten thousand others. Could he possibly sacrifice his future, his very life, just as it had suddenly opened up to him?
And he pondered on, meeting her, talking with her, and each hour falling deeper under the spell of her marvellous grace and beauty.
Mary, on her part, was full of thought. A frightful gulf was opened before her; she could not fly from its brink; she was goaded onwards though she saw it yawning beneath her feet.
While sitting alone with her father in his room one evening she approached the subject of Felice Solaro; but he instantly poured forth such a flood of invectives upon the condemned man that she was compelled to at once change the subject. To her it seemed that for some unaccountable reason he was prejudiced against the imprisoned man, and anything she might say in his favour only served to condemn him the more.
On looking back upon the past, she found that she had regarded love as a matter of everyday occurrence. She heard of it, saw it wherever she moved; every man who approached her either felt or feigned it; and so accustomed was she to homage and devotion that its absence alone attracted her attention. She had considered it part of her state—and yet of the real nature of true affection she had been perfectly unconscious.
She had more than once imagined herself in love, as in the case of Felice Solaro, mistaking gratified vanity for a deeper emotion—had felt pleasure in the presence of its object, and regret in absence; but that was a pastime and no more—until now.
But now! She held within her heart a deep secret—the secret of her love.
And this rendered her future all the more serious—her marriage all the more a fearful undertaking. She had no escape from her fate; she must marry a man who at least was indifferent to her. Could she ever suffer herself to be decked for this unpromising bridal, this union with a man who at heart was the enemy of her family and whom she hated?
One evening she again met George Macbean. He had returned from Naples, where he had executed a commission given him by the Minister, and had reported to his chief his visit to the commandant of the military district. He afterwards sat with Mary and her mother in one of the smaller reception-rooms of the ponderous old mansion. Mary, who was in a black dinner-dress slightlydécolleté, took up her mandoline—the instrument of which he was so fond—and sang the old Tuscan song, in which, with his heart so overburdened, he discerned a hidden meaning—
“Io questa notte in sogno l’ho veduto,Era vestito tutto di broccato;Le piume sul berretto di velluto,Ed una spada d’oro aveva allato.E poi m’ha detto con un bel sorriso.Io non posso piu star da te diviso!Da te diviso non ci posso stare,E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!”
“Io questa notte in sogno l’ho veduto,Era vestito tutto di broccato;Le piume sul berretto di velluto,Ed una spada d’oro aveva allato.E poi m’ha detto con un bel sorriso.Io non posso piu star da te diviso!Da te diviso non ci posso stare,E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!”
These words sank as iron into his soul. Did she, he wondered, really reciprocate his concealed and unexpressed feelings? Ah no, it was impossible—all impossible.
And when she had laid aside her instrument, he commenced to describe to them the grand review of troops which he had witnessed outside Naples that morning, and how the general staff had treated him as an honoured guest.
“Ah!” sighed Madame Morini. “If we were to tell the truth, Mr Macbean, both Mary and I are tired of the very sight of uniforms and the sound of military music. Wherever my husband goes in Italy a review is always included in the programme, and we have to endure the heat and the dust of the march past. Once, when I was first married, I delighted in all the glitter and display of armed forces, but nowadays I long and ever long for retirement at dear old Orton.”
“And so do I,” declared her daughter quickly. “When I was at school in England I used to look forward to the day when I would be presented at the Quirinale and enter Roman society. But oh, the weariness of it all! I have already become sick of its glare, its uncharitableness, and its intrigues. England—yes—give me dear England, or else the quiet of San Donato. You have never been there yet, Mr Macbean,” she added, looking into his face. “When you do go, you will find it more quiet and more beautiful than Orton.”
“I have no doubt,” he said. “If it is in the Arno valley, I know how beautiful the country is there, having passed up and down from Pisa many times. Those are photographs of it in madame’s boudoir—are they not?”
“Oh yes. Ah! then you’ve noticed them,” she exclaimed. “It is a delightful old place, is it not?” His eyes were fixed upon hers, and he read in their dark depths the burden of sorrow that was there. Dubard was due back in Rome, but he had not returned, nor had she mentioned the reason. He wished to meet him—to observe what effect his presence would have upon that man who had robbed him of all the happiness of life.
The chiming of the little French clock reminded him that it was the hour to take his leave, therefore he rose, grasped the hands of the grave, kind-faced Englishwoman and her daughter, and went forth into the old-world street, striding blindly on towards his own rooms.
“Really a delightful fellow,” remarked her mother when the door had closed behind him. “His English manners are refreshing after those of all the apeish young fools whom we are compelled for the sake of policy to entertain. But,” she added, with a laugh, suddenly recollecting, “I ought not to say that, my dear, now that you are to marry a Frenchman. I married an Italian, and as far as my choice of a husband has gone, I am thankful to say I have never regretted it—even though our natures and our religions are different.”
“I will never become a Catholic—never!” declared Mary decisively. “I do not, and I shall never, believe in the confessional.”
“Nor do I,” responded her mother. “But there is no need for you to change your religion. The count has already told me that he has no such desire. By the way, he was due back the day before yesterday. Why has he not returned?”
“I heard from him yesterday. He has gone down to the Pyrenees—on business connected with the estate, he says;” and then, after some further gossip regarding a charity bazaar at the German Embassy, at which they were to hold a stall on the morrow, the unhappy girl rose, and with uneven steps went along the gloomy, echoing corridors to her own room.
Teresa brushed her long brown tresses as she sat before her long mirror looking at the reflection of her pale face and wondering if the young Englishman guessed the truth. Then as soon as possible she dismissed her faithful serving-woman, and still sat in her chair, her mind occupied by a thousand thoughts which chased each other in quick succession.
One thought, in spite of all her efforts, she was unable to banish; it returned again and again, and would intrude in spite of her struggles to suppress it—the image of George Macbean, the man who had so suddenly become her friend.
The night wore on, and in the silence of her pretty chamber she wept for some time, abandoning herself to melancholy fancies; at length, reproaching herself for thus permitting sorrow to usurp the place of that resignation which the pure faith she had adopted ought to inspire, she threw herself upon her knees and offered to Heaven the homage of an afflicted and innocent heart.
As she rose from her knees the church bells of Rome were chiming one. She shuddered at the solemn stroke, for every hour seemed to bring her nearer the terrible self-sacrifice which she was compelled to make for her father’s sake. Her fears had risen almost to distraction, and she had wept and prayed alternately in all the agonies of anxiety.
The truth that had now forced itself upon her held her aghast, immovable. She loved George Macbean. Yes, she murmured his name aloud, and her words sounded weird and distinct in the silence of the night.
Yet if she withdrew from her unholy agreement with the man who had forced her to give her promise, then the hounds of destruction would be let loose upon her house.
And her father? She had discovered in the drawer of his carved writing-table at San Donato that tiny tube of innocent-looking tabloids; and though she kept the secret to herself, she had guessed his intention.
Could she deliberately allow him to sacrifice his life when there was still a means open whereby to save him?
She sank again upon her knees by the bedside, and greyed long for Divine help and deliverance.