"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 England's 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 it's 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 feted
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 Lunn's 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 I've looked in `Whitaker,'
and, strangely enough, it gives Signor Camillo Morini as Minister of
War!"
"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 haven't 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 he's here again
this season, the gossips say they are engaged. He is a rich man, I
hear, with estates in the Pyrenees."
George Macbean's 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 man's actual identity.
To him, the fact that the Frenchman was guest at Orton, and engaged to
the Minister's 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!