Although so deeply in love with her, he was judicious enough to save appearances, knowing well that the eyes of the whole countryside were upon him. The rustic is ever on the alert to discover defects in his master, and gossip in a village generally errs on the side of ill-nature. Therefore he was careful to appear gallant, and yet not too pressing in his attentions a somewhat difficult feat with the strong ardour of love burning within him.
They were strolling together through the quaint old flower-garden sloping gently away towards the placid river, where they found themselves alone, when Mary, turning her beautiful face to him, suddenly said
I had no idea, Mr Macbean, that you had met my father in Rome. He was very much interested the other day, and after you had gone made quite a lot of inquiries about you.
It was very kind of him, was the young mans laughing reply. I merely went as interpreter to Mr Morgan-Mason, who had business at your Ministry of War.
Then, as they halted beneath the trees at the waters edge, where there was a cool, refreshing breeze, she exclaimed suddenly, with a slight sigh, Ah, how I wish we always lived in dear old England! I always look back upon my schooldays by the sea as the happiest in all my life; but now, and she drew a long breath again. It is so different in Italy.
Yes. She was sad, he recognised very sad. But why? Her young heart seemed oppressed by some hidden grief. He saw it in her fine dark eyes at the moments when she was serious. Time after time, as he spoke to her and she answered, he recognised that upon her mind rested some heavy burden which oppressed and crushed her. Her resolute yet gentle spirit, her simple, serious, domestic turn of mind distinguished her from all the other women of his acquaintance. Her reveries, her simplicity, her melancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly feminine bearing, even though that of a cosmopolitan, were the characteristics of a womanly woman a woman who would struggle unsubdued against the strangest vicissitudes of fortune, meeting with unshaken constancy reverses and disasters such as would break the most masculine spirit.
George Macbean recognised all this, and more. He saw that she was at heart a thoroughly English girl, fond of tennis, hockey, and a country life, who had been transplanted into an artificial world of glare and glitter, of empty etiquette and false friendships, and yet who, at the same time, seemed to be held transfixed by some secret upon her conscience.
What was it? he wondered. Was he, after all, mistaken?
The longer he remained in her company, the more mystified did he become. He knew too well the character of Jules Dubard; he knew that she was marked down a victim, and he intended to stand as her friend her champion if need be even at peril to himself.
As she leaned over the old wooden rail at the river brink, gazing across the calm, unruffled waters, she chatted with gay vivacity about their mutual friends in the neighbourhood, and related her failure at a tennis tournament held on the previous day by a colonels wife on the other side of Rugby.
I suppose you often see Count Dubard in Rome, he said at last, with some attempt at indifference. He is in Italy a great deal nowadays, I have heard.
He was in Rome this winter, she answered. He often came to my mothers receptions.
He has a very wide circle of acquaintances, has he not?
Yes, mostly military men. He seems to know half of the officers in Rome. I thought I knew a good many, for crowds come to us every Thursday, but he knows far more.
And of course your father sends him cards for the official receptions at the Ministry of War?
Certainly why? she asked, glancing quickly at her companion with some surprise.
Oh, nothing, he laughed uneasily. I was only reflecting that he must have a very pleasant time in Italy, thats all.
I believe he enjoys himself, she said. But every foreigner who has money and is recognised by his Embassy can have a pleasant time in Rome if he likes.
But not every foreigner enjoys the friendship of the Minister of War, he remarked nor of his daughter, he added, with a smile.
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
Ah! she protested, with one of those quaint little foreign gestures. There you are again, Mr Macbean! Teasing me because these ignorant people here say that Im engaged to the count. It is really too bad of you! Did I not assure you the other day that it is quite untrue?
Forgive me! he exclaimed, raising his panama hat, bowing as though she were an entire stranger, and yet laughing the while. I had no intention of giving offence. Envy is permitted, however is it not?
Oh, it hasnt given me offence at all? she laughed frankly. You see, theres no truth in the rumour, therefore I can afford to laugh.
Her words struck him as very strange. They seemed to convey that if the engagement were really a fact it would cause her regret and annoyance.
I wanted to meet Dubard so much, he remarked in a tone of regret. I suppose there is no chance he will return to Orton?
Not this summer, I think. He left us to go direct to Paris, and then I believe he goes to his estate in the Pyrenees.
But he came here intending to spend a week or so at Orton, did he not?
Yes; but he received a letter recalling him to France, she said. Father says he didnt receive any letter. If he really didnt, he surely could have left without telling us a lie.
Macbean smiled. How little she knew of the real character of Jules Dubard, the plausible élégant who was such a prominent character at the Jockey Club and in the Bois.
Very soon, she added, in a tone of regret, we shall have to return. My father is due back at the Ministry on the fourth of next month, and while he is there we shall go up to San Donato, our villa above Florence, and stay for the vintage, which, to me, is the best time in Italy in all the year.
Ah yes, he sighed. I have always heard so. Myself I love Italy I only wish I could escape from this country with its long dismal winters and live in sunshine always.
You would very soon tire of it, she assured him, looking him straight in the face with her fine eyes. Even our bright sun gives one fever, and our blue sky becomes so monotonous that one longs for the calm of a grey English day.
I would like to try it for a year or two, he declared wistfully.
Then why dont you?
He was silent, and their eyes met again.
Because I am not my own master, Miss Morini, was his low response. My living, such as it is, lies here in England. I am the factotum of a man who has elevated money to be his god, and I am compelled to serve him in silence and without complaint because it happens to be my lot in life.
A rather unhappy and uncomfortable one, I should imagine, she remarked, suddenly growing grave.
At times, yes, was his brief reply. He did not wish to burden her with his own disappointments and misfortunes. She knew what was his position, a mere secretary, and that was sufficient. What hope could he ever have of daring to aspire to her hand? He might stand as her friend, but become her lover, never!
And when, a week later, he called at Orton to wish her farewell, as his vacation was at an end and he was compelled to return to his chambers in the Temple, and to that room in Mr Morgan-Masons flat in Queen Annes Mansions, he looked in vain in her eyes for some sign of genuine regret. There was none. No, she too had realised that on account of his position love was forbidden him.
We shall meet here again, I hope, Mr Macbean next summer, she exclaimed, laughing airily, as she gave him her small white hand.
I hope so, was his fervent reply in a low, meaning voice, as their hands clasped.
And then, with sinking heart and full of grave apprehensions regarding her future, he bowed and left her, left her, alas! to Jules Dubard Jules Dubard of all men!
Chapter Eight
The Traitor
Camillo Morini stood at the big window of his private cabinet in the Ministry of War at Rome, gazing down upon the silent courtyard, white in the glaring heat of afternoon.
He was dressed in a cool suit of clean white linen, as is the summer mode in the South, and as he stood gazing out at the sentry standing in his box motionless as a statue, he calmly smoked his after-luncheon cigar a good Havanna he had brought from England. The man who was so constantly juggling with a nations future pressed his lips together, and afterwards heaved a big sigh a sigh that echoed through the big, lofty room.
The Ministers cabinet, like all the rooms in the new War Office, was big and bare, with a marble floor for summer, and a high stove of white terra-cotta with broad brass bands for winter. Upon the ceiling were fine modern frescoes; the walls, however, unlike those of the other rooms, which were mostly colour-washed, were papered dark red, and the heavy furniture was covered with thick red plush; while in one corner was a handsome marble bust of Victor Emmanuel upon a pedestal, and above hung a large framed portrait of King Umberto, the reigning sovereign, and a huge shield bearing the arms of Italy. In the centre stood a huge writing-table of carved walnut, with a great high-backed chair, the seat of the man who ruled the army of Italy.
The doors were double, with a wide space between, so that the messenger in uniform who lounged outside should overhear nothing, while so hemmed in by secretaries was the Minister that he was as difficult of approach as the very sovereign himself.
That huge square block of new stuccoed buildings, with long corridors, enormous clerks room, and big courtyard, the echoes of which were awakened day and night by the regular tramp of the sentries and the clank of arms, was at that moment a veritable hive of industry for of all the government departments in Rome, the War Office, with its tremendous responsibilities, is the best conducted.
His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in consequence.
Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had been on guard outside, who saluted, saying
General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency.
What is the captains name? grunted the Minister of War.
The messenger looked at the card that had been given him, and replied
Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency.
Ah! Solaro! Solaro! exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. Show them in.
And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry a habit of his before giving audience.
A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general, short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the Ministers presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man of forty, followed his superiors example, yet as Morini darted a quick glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captains face was white as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.
Well, general? inquired the Minister, who had never before met that distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute. Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his row of medals and decorations showed. Why do you wish for audience? he asked sharply.
Your Excellency, I am here to crave for a more merciful sentence upon this man, the kindly old officer answered, turning to the captain, who stood with head bowed at his side. I am his commanding officer, and in justice I wish to intercede for him.
The Minister raised his eyes in surprise, and asked
And what is this mans name, pray?
I am Felice Solaro, your Excellency, faltered the captain, as though fearing to pronounce his own name. My general has travelled with me from Piedmont to obtain audience and to implore your mercy.
Solaro! echoed the Minister, looking straight at him. Ah yes, I remember! Then turning to the general, Morini added in a hard, impatient tone
I cannot see why you should have troubled yourself to come to Rome on such an errand and without leave too! I thought this man was under arrest? Is this the way you execute military justice in the north?
I took it upon myself to bring the captain here, was the fine old officers answer.
And he wears his sword, I see! remarked the Minister, with a sneer. I suppose you have taken it upon yourself to give it back to him eh?
I returned him his sword temporarily, your Excellency, in order that during our journey here no one should recognise him as the man who has been sentenced, and further, in order that he should stand before you in the full possession of his rights as an officer, and ask your leave to explain.
I have no time to hear any explanations from men who have been condemned by court-martial, General Valentini. It is your duty to hear his excuses not mine. The whole matter is quite clear. I have had the papers before me, and have gone through them carefully. They were sent to me in England. And if you ask me my private opinion, general, I think that dismissal from the army and fifteen years imprisonment is a very light sentence upon a traitor. Had I been on the court-martial I should have given a life sentence.
But, your Excellency! gasped the unhappy captain, his face blanched, his hands trembling, I am innocent. I am the victim of some clever conspiracy, by which the real culprit has shielded himself. I had no chance of defending myself at the court-martial, for
Silence! cried the Minister. You have been tried and found guilty of treason against your king and country. The evidence is as plain as the light of day, and yet you deny your guilt?
I do deny it, declared the unhappy captain. They refused to hear my explanation.
That is true, your Excellency, interposed the general. The court sat for four days in Turin with closed doors, and as three of the officers composing it were due to go on their annual leave, the sitting on the fourth day was terminated hurriedly, sentence was given, and sent to you for confirmation. Your Excellency has confirmed it, therefore Captain Solaro has no appeal except to yourself.
You, as his commanding officer, were not a member of the court?
No, your Excellency.
Then why should you interest yourself in a matter which does not concern you, pray? inquired Morini impatiently.
Because this unfortunate affair reflects upon the honour of my command.