Ah, my dear uncle, laughed Macbean, of course regard it as entirely confidential, but what Barton discovered is the truth. Signor Morini is a member of the Italian Cabinet, and one of the most prominent personages in Italy and they actually believe him here to be an adventurer! he laughed. But, he added, you havent told me about Dubard.
I know practically nothing, except that he stayed at Orton for a month last summer, and was very attentive to Mary. And as hes here again this season, the gossips say they are engaged. He is a rich man, I hear, with estates in the Pyrenees.
George Macbeans lip curled slightly, and he gave vent to a distinct sniff of dissatisfaction. He had recognised him as they had passed on the highroad, and yet, until his uncle had mentioned the name of Dubard, he had been puzzled as to the mans actual identity.
To him, the fact that the Frenchman was guest at Orton, and engaged to the Ministers daughter, was utterly staggering. Yet rumour did not say there was really an engagement or at least it had not been formally announced.
The young man relit his pipe and smoked on in silence, his brows knit, his mind full of a certain scene of the past a scene conjured up in his memory by sight of that pale, narrow face with the brown moustache a scene that caused his hands to clench themselves and his teeth to close together firmly.
Do tell me what you know about the Frenchman, urged the rector.
No, thank you, my dear uncle, responded the other. I know too well these gossiping villages, and I hold the law of slander in too great a dread. The count is all right, he laughed. A very nice fellow, you said.
His uncle saw that he had no intention of saying a word against the visitor at Orton, and yet at the same time it was apparent that he held him in distinct mistrust. Yet, after all, reflected the rector, it was curious that George had not recognised him at once.
Macbean sat back watching the smoke curl slowly up, plunged in deep reflection. That man of all others was to marry Mary Morini! What a cruel vagary of Fate! Did she really love the fellow? he wondered. Had his elegant airs and graces, his stiff poses, and French effeminacy really attracted her? To him it seemed impossible. She was too sweet and womanly, too modest and full of the higher ideals of life, to allow that veneer of polish to deceive her. It might be, of course, that the marriage was to be one of convenience that the Minister wished his daughter to become a French countess with an ancient title like that of Dubard yet he could not conceive that she would of her own free will marry such a man.
Evidently His Excellency Camillo Morini was in blind ignorance of the character of his guest, or he would never for a moment entertain him in the bosom of his family.
If they were really engaged, then her future was at stake. He alone knew the truth that ghastly, amazing truth and it was therefore his bounden duty to go to her and frankly tell her all that he knew or better, to seek an interview with the Minister and place the facts before him.
When he had bidden his uncle good-night and mounted to the small old-fashioned bedroom, he blew out the candle and sat at the open window gazing out upon the wide stretch of pasture land white in the moonbeams, reviewing the whole situation and endeavouring to decide upon the best course of action.
Mary Morini had charmed him with her sweet face and piquante cosmopolitan manner, yet at that same moment he had made a discovery that held him dumb in amazement. He recognised that she was in deadly peril how deadly she little dreamed, and that to save her to save the honour of her family he must tell the truth.
He saw before him the tragedy of silence, and yet, alas! his lips were sealed.
To utter one single word of what he knew would be to bring upon himself opprobrium, disgrace, ruin!
Chapter Five
Is Mainly about a Woman
George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.
When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his uncle his intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had to give a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and would therefore not be able to accompany him.
So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose him and thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted and rode away down the white, dusty highroad.
Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, and rode over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, to Orton.
Eleven oclock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling, but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long, well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed the study window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit of light grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellency himself.
In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared, whereupon he asked
Is Count Dubard at home?
The count left this morning by the nine oclock train.
Left! echoed Macbean. And is he not returning?
I think not, sir. He took his luggage. But I will inquire if youll step in a moment.
The man had conducted him across the wide old-fashioned stone hall into a pleasant morning-room which looked out upon the flower-garden and was flooded with sunshine, and after the lapse of a few moments the door reopened and there entered Mary herself, a charming figure in a fresh white blouse and linen skirt.
Why, Mr Macbean! she cried, extending her hand gaily. You are quite an unexpected visitor! Davis says you want to see Count Dubard. He left for Paris this morning.
And is he not coming back?
No, I believe not, was her answer. He received a letter this morning calling him to Paris at once, and dashed off to try and catch the eleven oclock service from Charing Cross. He just had time, he said. He was anxious to see you, I think.
Anxious to see me why? asked Macbean quickly.
Last night he told me that he recognised you as you were driving home with Mr Sinclair, and asked if I knew you. I, of course, told him that you had been playing tennis here. He seemed very eager to see you, and made quite a lot of inquiries about you.
Her companion was silent. The recognition had been mutual, then, and the story of the urgent letter was only an excuse of the Frenchmans to escape from a very ugly and compromising position! His flight showed Macbean that the fellow was in fear of him, and yet he had fortunately avoided a scene between them, and a result which, in all probability, might have caused his own ruin.
He looked at the bright, sweet-faced woman before him, and wondered wondered how she could allow her affection to be attracted towards such a fellow. And yet what an admirable actor the man was! She was, alas! in ignorance of it all.
How could he tell her? To explain, would only be to condemn himself. No. He resolved that for the present he must conceal his secret for his own sake. Nevertheless how strange it was, he thought, that he should thus suddenly be drawn so closely towards her. Yesterday she was a mere acquaintance of the tea-table and the tennis-lawn, like dozens of other girls he knew, while to-day he was there as her friend and protector, the man who intended to save her and her family from the ingenious trap that he now saw was already prepared.
Im sorry hes gone, he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, I knew him long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he was a guest here.
Im sorry hes gone, he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, I knew him long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he was a guest here.
He too said he wanted very much to see you, she remarked brightly. But youll meet again very soon, no doubt. I shall tell him of your inquiries when I write, for he spoke of you in the warmest terms. I did not know your address in London, so I gave him Mr Sinclairs. Im so sorry hes gone, she added. We were to have all gone for a picnic to-day over to Kenilworth.
And instead of that the central attraction has disappeared, he hazarded, with a smile.
What do you mean by central attraction? she asked, flushing slightly.
My friend Dubard, of course. I suppose what everyone says is correct, Miss Morini, and therefore I may be permitted to congratulate you upon your engagement to my friend?
Oh, there is no engagement, I assure you, was her reply, as she looked at him with open frankness, her cheeks betraying a slightly heightened colour. I know theres quite a lot of gossip about it, but the rumours are entirely without foundation, she laughed; and as she sat there in the deep old window-seat, he recognised that, notwithstanding the refined and dignified beauty of a woman who was brilliant in a brilliant court, she still retained a soft simplicity and a virgin innocence; she was a woman whose first tears would spring from compassion, suffering with those that she saw suffer. She had no acquired scruples of honour, no coy concealments, no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness as they spoke together was less a quality than an instinct; like the self-folding flower, spontaneous and unconscious. Cosmopolitan life in that glare and glitter of aristocratic Rome that circle where, from the innate distrust women have of each other, the dread of the betrayed confidence and jealous rivalry, they made no friends, and were indeed ignorant of the true meaning of friendship, where flattery and hypocrisy were the very air and atmosphere and mistrust lay in every hand-clasp and lurked in every glance had already opened Mary Morinis eyes to the hollow shams, the manifold hypocrisies, and the lamentable insincerity of social intimacies, and she had recoiled from it with disgust.
She had retained her womans heart, for that was unalterable and inalienable as a part of her being; but her looks, her language, her thoughts, assumed to George Macbean, as he stood there beneath the spell of her beauty, the cast of the pure ideal.
And yet she loved Jules Dubard!
He bit his lip and gazed out of the old diamond panes upon the tangle of red and white roses around the lawn.
Ah! how he longed to speak to her in confidence to reveal to her the secret that now oppressed his heart until he seemed stifled by its ghastliness.
But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchmans crushing revenge.
He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying
Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.
Yes, she declared. They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard ridiculous!
Why ridiculous? he asked, standing before her.
Well because it is! she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. Im not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.
I shall certainly do so, he declared, and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.
She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously the man who was her fathers friend and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.
His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed
This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.
Very glad to meet you, sir, exclaimed Camillo Morini, rising, grasping the young mans hand, and raising his grey felt hat. You know, he explained, as he reseated himself, I am a busy man, and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wifes English friends. But, he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.
Yes, your Excellency, laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morinis true position. I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.
Of course, of course! exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm, he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.
Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.
All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morinis creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read mens minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.
Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his, his daughter explained.
Oh, you are acquainted! How curious! exclaimed His Excellency. Dubard unfortunately left this morning because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull, he laughed knowingly. Ive received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when Ive been tired of a host and hostess.
And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubards flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.
Of course, added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits you understand?