Next day at noon Mary, who was out driving in the smart English
victoria, called at the Ministry and again sat alone with her father
trying to persuade him to order an inquiry into the case of the
unfortunate Felice Solaro.
"It is useless, my dear," was his impatient answer. "He has already
been here himself, but the case is proved up to the very hilt. I
therefore cannot interfere."
"Proved by that woman Nodari?" she cried, with fierce indignation.
Then, after a pause, she leaned towards him and said in a low, earnest
voice, "You will not allow an inquiry because you fear its result,
father?"
"Hush! Who told you that?" he gasped, staring at her.
"No one. It is only a logical conclusion. The captain is the victim of
a wicked conspiracy, and he is suffering in silence because he knows the
utter futility of appeal."
"He has already appealed to me."
"And you have refused him justice!" was his daughter's quick reproachful
declaration. "You are surely not unjust, father? You cannot be."
The tall, distinguished-looking man was silent, and rising, walked up
the long strip of carpet placed upon the marble floor. Then slowly he
returned to her, and looking straight into her face, said--
"My hands are tied, my girl. I am powerless, I confess to you."
"But in your heart you believe that he is innocent? Tell me the truth."
"Yes," he whispered in a broken voice. "I do--I do."
She made no response. His admission was full of a poignant meaning.
She saw that he was somehow fettered, held in some mysterious bondage of
which she was in ignorance.
Again she spoke of the examination of the safe by Dubard, but this
matter he seemed disinclined to discuss, and pleading other affairs, he
urged her to return home and await him at luncheon.
At three o'clock, after eating his midday meal with her, he went forth
again to make a round of official calls, when, a quarter of an hour
later, the Italian footman threw open the long white doors of the small
salon where Mary was sitting writing letters, and announced--
"Comte Dubard!"
She started quickly, held her breath, and rose to greet her visitor,
who, foppishly dressed in a pale grey flannel suit, came forward
smiling, and, drawing his heels together, bowed low over her white hand.
The man's calm impertinence and cool unscrupulousness held her
speechless.
"I thought you were still at San Donato," she stammered, when at last
she found tongue. "I had no idea you were here, in Rome."
"I have followed you," he declared, smiling. "You left the villa
unknown to me, and therefore I have come to you."
"For what reason?" she inquired, her brows slightly elevated.
"Because--well, because I fear that the reason of your sudden journey is
to reveal to your father those things which I told you in confidence the
other day. Remember the future rests entirely in your own hands. He
must know nothing--at least at present."
"And is that the only reason you are here, count?" she asked meaningly,
standing before him with her hands behind her back, her splendid dark
eyes fixed upon him.
"I come here as your friend to warn you that silence is best at this
moment. A word to your father will precipitate the crisis. I know," he
went on, "that you are convinced that an injustice has been done in the
case of poor Solaro. Your attitude the other evening showed me that.
But I beg of you to make no effort to clear his character, because, in
the first place, any such attempt must of necessity fail; and secondly,
your father's enemies would at once shriek of the insecurity of the
French frontier. No," he argued, speaking in a low tone in French, "you
must keep your own counsel, mademoiselle. If this catastrophe is to be
averted, if the Cabinet is to be saved, then it must be by some
ingenious means that are not apparent to your father's enemies."
She stood listening to this declaration of friendship by the man who had
pried into her father's secrets. It was on the tip of her tongue to
openly charge him with ulterior motives, nevertheless her better
judgment prevailed. She recognised, as her father had pointed out, that
no good end could be served by showing her hand at that juncture,
therefore she allowed him to argue without raising her voice in protest.
He had followed her from Tuscany because he was apprehensive lest she
should tell her father the truth. Why? He was in fear of something; of
what, she could not tell.
A great conspiracy, ingenious and widespread, was afoot to encompass her
father's ruin, therefore she resolved to remain at his side and at any
cost face the perils of exposure. The few hours she had spent in her
father's society had shown that, so full was he of his responsible
official duties and affairs concerning the army of Italy, he had, in a
few weeks, become an entirely changed man. His face was now pale and
drawn, and when he sat alone with her there rested upon his countenance
a haunted look--the look of a man who was face to face with ruin.
Loving her father, she had been quick to recognise the truth. At first
it had staggered her, but her surprise and horror had given place to a
deep filial sympathy, and while determined to hide her secret from her
mother, she had become at the same time her father's confidante and
friend.
"I am quite well aware of the intentions of the Opposition," she
answered coldly, after a painful pause. "But I am not in the least
apprehensive. My father has for so many years been a faithful servant
of his sovereign that the Italian people still have confidence in him.
Neither the country nor the Camera can fail to recognise the many
reforms he has introduced into the army, or how he has alleviated the
lot of the common conscript."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. "I am glad that you recognise
your father's strong position--the strongest of any man in the Italian
Government. Nevertheless," he added, "those shrieking firebrands can,
if they so desire, set Italy aflame. We have that truth to face, and we
must face it."
Her lips were pressed together, for she saw how cleverly he was changing
his tactics towards her. She also recognised how, by appearing to have
confidence in the future, she could place him off his guard. Her
father's honour was, she felt, in her hands, and the magnitude of the
issue aroused within her all her woman's innate tact and courage.
"I came to Rome because my father telegraphed to me," she said quite
simply. "He wanted to take me with him to Palermo to visit my aunt, but
the king's programme is changed, so we are not going after all. I
intend to return to San Donato the day after to-morrow. It is still too
hot in Rome."
"Ah! then I own myself quite mistaken," he laughed. "I have been unduly
anxious, for I attributed your sudden departure to your natural desire
to tell His Excellency all that I had explained in confidence. We men,
you know, are in the habit of saying that women cannot keep secrets."
"I can keep one," she declared.
"Yes," he answered. "I know you can. Upon your secrecy in this affair
the very fate of the Ministry depends, believe me. You know that I am
your father's true friend--as well as yours."
She held her breath, and her eyes met his.
"You have told me that several times before," she remarked in a quiet,
mechanical voice and with an assumed air of unconcern.
"And I mean it," he said earnestly. "Only you had better not tell your
father that I am here. It is, perhaps, unwise to let him know that I
have followed you from San Donato--he may suspect."
"Suspect what?"
"Well, suspect the reason of my visit to you to-day," he said, surprised
at her quick question. "You see I have come here because--well, to tell
you the truth," he faltered, "I am here to tell you something which I
wanted to say at San Donato--yet I dared not."
"What--is it bad news?" she asked, looking at him with some
apprehension.
A long silence fell between them. He was watching her, hesitating
whether he should speak. At length, however, he suddenly took her hand
and said--
"As I have told you, I am your father's friend. You may doubt me;
probably you do. But one day I shall prove to you that I am acting
solely from motives of friendship--that I am endeavouring to shield your
father from the impending blow."
"If you are, why do you not go to my father and tell him everything?"
she asked, inwardly filled with doubt and mistrust.
"Because, as I have told you, it is impolitic to do so at this moment.
We must wait."
"And while we wait his enemies may take advantage."
"No, not yet. Their plans are not yet complete," he answered. "I was
at the Camera last evening, and discovered the exact situation. If we
are patient and watchful we may yet turn the weapon of our enemies
against themselves."
He saw that she was grave and thoughtful, that his advice caused her to
reflect; while she, on her part, did not divulge what she had already
told His Excellency.
They stood together at the window, where the long green sun-shutters
were closed to keep out the blazing heat of afternoon, and as he looked
upon her handsome profile in that dim half-light he saw that her face
and figure in her cool white dress was the most perfect that he had ever
gazed upon even in the _haut monde_ of Paris. In the air was the
stifling oppression of the storm-cloud: "You are sad," he said presently
in a calm, low voice as he leaned against the broad marble sill of the
window, where a welcome breath of air reached them from the silent
sun-baked street below.
Her dark eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, and her hands were
clasped in pensive attitude; for his manner had mystified her, knowing
all that he had done in the silence of the night at San Donato.
"I fear the future," she declared frankly, starting at his words and
turning her gaze upon him.
"But what have you to fear?" he asked, bending slowly towards her with
an intense look in his eyes. "I am your friend equally with your
father's, as I have already declared, and fortunately I know the
intentions and the dastardly intrigues of those who are plotting his
ruin."
"Then you can save him by exposing their plot?" she cried, utterly
amazed at his words. "You will--will you not?" she implored
breathlessly.
"I can save him--yes, I can, within twelve hours, cause the very men who
now seek the downfall of the Ministry to fly in fear from Rome," he
said. Then, after a pause, he added, "I know the truth."
"And you will tell it?" she urged breathlessly, advancing towards him.
"My father's future, my own future, the honour of our house all depend
upon you." He had examined her father's private papers, and undoubtedly
knew the truth on both sides. He had acted with the enemy, and yet he
declared himself to be her friend? "You will save my father?" she
implored.
With a sudden movement he took her hand in his and whispered in a quick,
earnest voice into her ear--
"Yes, I will save him--on one condition. Of late, Mary, I have noticed
that you have avoided me--that--that you somehow appear to shun me in
suspicion and mistrust. You doubt my good intentions towards you and
your family. But I will give proof of them if you will only allow me."
She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and trembled.
"Save my father from the hands of these unscrupulous office-seekers,"
she panted. "His honour--his very life is to-day at stake."
"Upon two conditions, Mary," was his low, quiet answer, still holding
her hand firmly in his. "That he gives his consent to our marriage, and
that you are willing to become my wife."
"Your wife!" she gasped, drawing her hand away, starting back, and
looking blankly at him with her magnificent eyes. "_Your wife_!"
"Yes. I love you, Mary," he cried passionately, taking her hand again,
"I love you. You must have seen how for months past I have lived for
you alone, yet I dared not, until to-day, reveal the truth. Say one
word--only say that you will be mine--and your father shall crush those
who intend to wreck and ruin him."
"You--then you make marriage the price of my father's triumph?" she
faltered hoarsely, as the ghastly truth gradually dawned upon her.
"Yes," he cried, raising her inert hand to his hot lips. "Because I
love you, Mary!--because I cannot live without you! Be mine. Speak the
word, and I will reveal the truth and save your father from ruin."
But, realising the cleverly laid trap into which she had fallen, she
stood silent and rigid, her eyes fixed upon him in an agony of blank,
unutterable despair.