The Thornby Flower-Show was held a week later in the rectory grounds,
the work of arrangement chiefly devolving upon the bluff, good-natured
rector and his nephew George.
The little rural fete, encouraged by the richer residents, was, like
other village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers to
exhibit their "twelve best varieties of vegetables," their "six best
pot-plants," the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticultural
possessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, well
managed, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses in
the neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the open
classes.
The judges--three gardeners from a distance--had inspected the exhibits
in the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with the
committee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or three
cottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, been
entertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o'clock
the village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up their
music-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, the
villagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent,
anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured card
indicative of a prize.
At half-past two several smart carriages had driven up, and at last came
the Morini landau, containing Mr Morini and his wife and daughter Mary.
Basil Sinclair and George having welcomed them at the gate, Mr Morini
was conducted to a small platform on the lawn, where, after a few words
of introduction from the rector, he made a short speech in fairly good
English, declaring the flower-show open.
Afterwards the party were conducted round the show by Sinclair, while
George, of course, walked with Mary, who looked cool and sweet in a
simple gown of pale grey voile, with a large grey hat to match.
As they walked around the tent, close beneath the noonday sun and heavy
with the odour of vegetables and perfume of flowers, she congratulated
him upon the success of the show.
Thornby always looked forward to the flower-show, for it was a gala day
for the village; its four shops were closed, across the road at the top
of the hill the committee stretched a string of gay bunting, and when
dusk came the rectory garden was illuminated and there was dancing on
the lawn. Thornby made every occasion an excuse for a dance, and the
annual _al fresco_ ball on the rector's lawn was the chief event of the
year.
It was His Excellency's first visit to the rectory, therefore Mr
Sinclair showed him the old-fashioned house, the grounds, the quaint old
fifteenth-century church with its curious sculptured tombs, old carved
oak and monumental brasses, while Mrs Morini, meeting several ladies of
her acquaintance on the lawn, left Mary free to walk and talk with
George Macbean.
For a whole long week of never-ending days he had been eagerly
anticipating that meeting. Never for one moment had he ceased to think
of her. The sweet, fair-faced girl was in peril, he knew, and if it
were possible he intended to save her. But how? Ah! that was the
question.
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 man's 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 water's 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 colonel's 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
mother's 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, that's 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 I'm 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 hasn't given me offence at all?" she laughed frankly. "You see,
there's 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 didn't receive any letter. If he really didn't, 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 _elegant_ 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 don't 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-Mason's flat in Queen Anne's
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!