And then?
Bah! Why anticipate such a terrible contretemps? he asked himself. Then he bit his under lip as he glanced at his enemy standing beneath the light of the rose-shaded lamp talking with madame, and afterwards turned again to laugh and chat with mademoiselle.
I lunched at the Junior United Service Club to-day with a friend of yours, he was saying; for she had risen from the piano and they had gone out upon the moon-lit verandah together, where, obtaining her permission, he lit a cigarette.
A friend of mine?
Captain Houghton, the British naval attaché at Rome. He is home for a months leave, and sent his compliments to you.
Oh, Freddie Houghton? she exclaimed. He was longing to get home all the winter, but couldnt get leave. Hes engaged, they say, and of course he wanted to see his enchantress. Hes the best dancer in Rome.
Then suddenly lowering his voice, he asked abruptly
Why is Borselli here? I had no idea he was to be a guest!
Ah! I know you dont like the fellow, she remarked, glancing back into the room. Neither do I. He is my fathers evil genius, I believe.
What makes you suspect that? inquired the Frenchman, with considerable interest.
Several circumstances, was her vague response, as she twisted her curious old snake bracelet, a genuine sixteenth-century ornament which she had bought one day in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.
You mistrust him eh?
He poses as my fathers friend, but I believe that all the time he is jealous of his position and is his bitterest enemy.
But they are very old friends, are they not?
Oh yes. The general owes his present position entirely to my father; otherwise he would now be in garrison in some obscure country town.
I only wish he were, declared Dubard fervently. He is jealous of our friendship. Did you notice how he glared at me while you were singing?
And yet at table you were such good friends, she laughed.
It is not polite to exhibit ill-feeling in a friends house, mademoiselle, was his calm response. Yet I admit that I entertain no greater affection for the fellow than you do.
But why should he object to our friendship? she exclaimed. If he were unmarried, and in love with me, it would of course be different.
No, he said. He hates me.
Why?
Jules Dubard was silent, his dark eyes were fixed away across the moon-lit lawn.
Why? she repeated. Tell me!
Well, he has cause to hate me thats all, and he smiled mysteriously.
But hes a dangerous man, she declared, with quick apprehension. You probably dont know so much of him as I do. He would betray his own father if it suited his purpose.
I know, laughed the man drily. Ive heard sufficient stories concerning him to be quite well aware of his unscrupulous character. It is a thousand pities that he is an associate of your fathers.
Ah yes! she sighed. But how can it be avoided? They are in office in the same ministry, and are bound to be in constant touch with each other. The only thing I fear is that he has, by some intrigue, contrived to get my father in his power, she said confidentially.
How? What causes you to suspect such a thing? he inquired quickly.
Because once or twice of late I have noticed how when he has called in Rome and in Florence my father has been disinclined to see him, and that after the fellows departure he has seemed very thoughtful and preoccupied. More than once, too, Ive heard high words between them when theyve been closeted together in the study in Rome. I once heard him threaten my father, she added.
Threaten him! cried her companion quickly. What did the man say? Tell me. All that the girl was telling him was confirming what, in his heart, he already suspected.
Well, she said, in a low voice of confidence, it was early one morning, after the last court ball, and he had driven home with us. Afterwards my father had taken him to the study, and I had said good-night, when, on going to my room half an hour later, I found my maid very unwell. Therefore I went down again, intending to get from the study the key of the medicine cupboard, when I heard voices within, and naturally stopped to listen. I heard my father say distinctly, I wont. Ill never be a party to such a piece of audacious robbery why, its treason treason, do you hear? No, Angelo, not even you can induce me to betray my country! Then in reply I heard the general say, Very well. I have told you the course I intend to adopt. Your refusal places me in a critical situation, and I shall therefore save myself. At my expense? asked my father in a low, hoarse voice. Yes, the man replied. I shall certainly not fall without an effort to retain my place, my liberty, depend upon it. And when the truth is out regarding the Sazarac affair, this high moral standard that you are now adopting will avail you but little. Then there was a silence. At last my father asked in a tone of reproach, You actually intend to betray me, Angelo? you, who owe your rank, your position, everything to me! Tell me, you are surely joking? No, replied the fellow, I am in earnest. You must act as I have suggested, or take the consequences?
You are certain quite certain that Borselli mentioned the Sazarac affair? asked the Frenchman, in deep earnestness and surprise. I mean that you distinctly heard the name of Sazarac mentioned?
Distinctly. Why?
But the Frenchman made no reply. How could he tell her? What she had related revealed to him a strange and startling truth a truth which held him amazed, aghast.
Chapter Four
Contains a Mystery
In the rectors cosy little study at Thornby, George Macbean sat that same evening smoking his pipe, perplexed and puzzled.
In the zone of light shed by the green-shaded reading-lamp the rector, a stout, good-humoured, round-faced man of forty, sat writing a letter, while his nephew, lounging back in the old leather arm-chair before the fireplace, drew heavy whiffs at his pipe, with his eyes fixed straight upon the well-filled bookcase before him.
That day he had become a changed man.
From the first moment he had bowed to Mary Morini, when his uncle had introduced him at Orton, he had been struck by her marvellous grace and beauty, and this admiration had daily increased until now he was compelled to acknowledge within himself that he was deeply in love with her.
He smiled bitterly as the truth made itself manifest. He had been over head and ears in love with half a dozen women in his time, but he had always in a few weeks discovered their defects, their ambitions, and their lack of womanliness, without which a woman is no woman. He supposed it would be the same again, for he was not a man who wore his heart upon his sleeve.
And yet he had discovered that a mystery surrounded her a mystery that attracted him.
The dead quiet of the night was unbroken save for the scratching of the rectors pen, for the village of Thornby, like all agricultural villages, goes to bed early and rises with the dawn. The solemn bell in the old church-tower struck ten as Mr Sinclair scribbled the superscription, blotted it, and rose from the table to fill his own pipe.
Why, George, my boy, youre glum to-night. Whats the matter?
I really didnt know I was, laughed his nephew. I was only thinking. And I didnt want to disturb you.
I really didnt know I was, laughed his nephew. I was only thinking. And I didnt want to disturb you.
Nothing disturbs me except babies in church, declared the big fellow, laughing deeply. He was a good type of the easy-going bachelor parson in the enjoyment of a comfortable living and popularity in local society. He was fond of golf and cricket, was a good judge of a horse, a good shot, and frequently rode to hounds.
He filled his well-coloured briar carefully, lit it, and then casting himself into the chair opposite his nephew, said with a laugh
I noticed you were very chummy with Mary Morini. Well, what do you think of her?
Very charming, responded the young man, rather annoyed at his uncles chaff.
All the men about here rave over her beauty and they have cause to, no doubt. Shes a very entertaining companion and possesses a keen sense of humour one of those girls who attract a man without being aware of it. Thats the chief essential in a womans grace.
But who are these Morinis? inquired Macbean, removing his pipe from his mouth. Nobody seems to know exactly who or what they are.
Youre quite right, responded his uncle, in a rather changed tone. Quite between ourselves, Ive heard that question asked a good many times. Morini himself seems a bit of a recluse, for he seldom goes anywhere. Indeed, I havent spoken to him more than half a dozen times in my life. But Madame Morini and her daughter are taken up by the local people because of their apparent affluence and because they rent Orton from Lady Straker.
What kind of man is this Morini? asked Macbean, in an idle tone.
Oh, rather gentlemanly, with a lot of elegant pose. Speaks English very well for a foreigner, and smokes a very excellent brand of cigar. But, if the truth were told, hes looked upon here with a good deal of suspicion. Ill-natured people say that hes a foreign adventurer who comes here in hiding from the police, he added, laughing.
The young man blew a long cloud of smoke from his lips, and remained silent. He was trying to recall a face he had seen the face of a man, evidently a foreigner, who had passed them in a dogcart as they were on the road home from Orton. The mans features had puzzled him ever since. They were familiar, yet he could not recollect in what circumstances they had met before.
In his position as secretary to the Member for South-West Norfolk he met many men, yet somehow he held a distinct idea that in the misty past this man had created upon him some impression of evil.
You recollect, he exclaimed at last, that just before we came to the cross-roads to Calthorpe we passed a dogcart coming out from Rugby, with a groom in dark green livery.
Yes. It was Morinis cart. The man in it is a guest at Orton, was the rectors reply. More than that, he added, hes said to be engaged or about to be engaged to the girl you admire so much.
Oh, thats interesting! remarked Macbean. Do you know the mans name?
Hes a young French count named Dubard. Ive met him here several times; he seems quite a decent fellow for a Frenchman.
Dubard? Dubard? repeated the young man aloud, starting forward as though a sudden revelation had flashed upon him. Surely he cant be Jules Dubard, the
The what? asked the rector quickly.
His nephew hesitated, recognising how he had narrowly betrayed the secret of that recognition. Then he added quite coolly
The Frenchman.
Basil Sinclair, disappointed at this clever evasion, looked his nephew straight in the face, and from the pallor of his cheeks saw that whatever recollections had been conjured up by mention of that name they were evidently the reverse of pleasing.
His name is certainly Jules, and he is a Frenchman, he said gravely. But you know something about him. I see it in your face.
The young man smiled, and lolling back again in the big easy-chair, answered with admirable coolness, considering the bewildering truth that had at that moment flashed upon him
I am only surprised that Miss Morini should become engaged to a Frenchman. She told me to-day that her greatest regret is that they cannot live in England always.
Ah, my boy, shes a thorough-going cosmopolitan, replied the rector, his pipe still between his teeth. Such women always marry foreigners. I daresay her father would object if she wanted to marry an Englishman. Hes a man who evidently means his daughter to marry a title.
In Italy it is rather a claim to distinction not to possess a title, laughed his nephew, recollecting how many penniless counts and marquises he had come across during those happy years when he lived with his Uncle Pietro in the white, half-deserted old city of Pisa.
Morini is Italian to the backbone, with all the Italians admiration for England and yet with all the Italians prejudices. Youll say so when you know him.
But this count? exclaimed Macbean. Tell me what you know about him.
You know more than I do, my dear George, declared Sinclair, with a sly smile, only you dont choose to tell me. You hold an opinion that he is not a fit and proper person to become the husband of Morinis daughter. Admit it.
I dont yet know who Morini really is, responded his nephew, with a clever diplomacy. You have not yet told me the general impression in the neighbourhood regarding the family.
As I have already said, theyre looked upon with distinct suspicion.
Because they are foreigners eh?
Possibly. We are very insular here in Leicestershire, notwithstanding the increasing foreign element in the hunting-field.
George slowly knocked the ashes from his pipe, saying
We English hold the foreigner in too great contempt. We are apt to forget that there are other Powers constantly conspiring to undermine our strength and to overthrow our sovereignty. The rural stay-at-home entertains a belief in Englands security that is really childish in its simplicity, and if we have not a wise king, a strong Cabinet, and shrewd men in our diplomatic service, the mine must explode some day, depend upon it.
Ah, laughed the rector, I suppose its your parliamentary associations that make you talk like that. You told me you sometimes prepare speeches for Morgan-Mason to deliver to his constituents. Is that one of his texts?
No, not exactly, replied the other, with a good-humoured smile. I only speak what I think. The ignorance of the public regarding foreigners is simply appalling. They are in utter ignorance of the state of advancement of certain foreign nations as compared with our own. We are always slow and conservative, while they are quick to adopt new inventions, new ideas, and new schemes of progress.
Mostly gingerbread, remarked the rector.
Argument upon that point is unnecessary, said Macbean, growing serious. I only emphasise the fact that a foreign family in England is at a far greater disadvantage than an English family on the Continent. The former is held in suspicion or shunned, while the latter is fêted and welcomed. Ah, my dear uncle, society, with all its sins and vices, is full of amazing prejudices.
But of course there is another side to the question of the Morinis, his uncle said. It got abroad last year that Morini held some very high position in Rome. Young Barton, the schoolmaster at Kilworth, went with one of Lunns tours to Italy, and when he came back he told an extraordinary story of how the party were being shown the outside of one of the public offices when a gentleman descended from a carriage which drove into the courtyard, and as he entered the sentries saluted. To his surprise he recognised him as Mr Morini, and on inquiry understood from one of the doorkeepers that he was His Excellency the Minister of War. Of course nobody believed him. But Ive looked in Whitaker, and, strangely enough, it gives Signor Camillo Morini as Minister of War!