George and Mary met frequently in the days that followed. His
Excellency was still suffering from an attack of that prostrating malady
Roman fever, and George, as his private secretary, was daily in
attendance upon him.
Morini liked the young man for his honest English sturdiness of
character, his diligent application to his duties, and his enthusiasm
for all that was beneficial to the army. He had quickly picked up his
duties, and already the Minister of War found his assistance
indispensable.
He worked a good deal in the big old library of the palace, wherein the
Minister's daughter and wife often entered to salute him and sometimes
to give him an invitation to remain to luncheon, when the conversation
would generally be upon English matters in general and things at Orton
and Thornby in particular. Both mother and daughter delighted in their
English home, and always regretted leaving it for that fevered existence
they were compelled to lead continually in the Italian capital.
Mary was already engaged, otherwise neither Morini nor his wife would
probably have allowed the two young people to be thrown so constantly
into each other's society. Thus, however, the bond of friendship
gradually became strengthened between them, he loving her fondly in
secret, while she regarded him as a man in whom she might one day
confide. She had no friend in whom she could trust, save her father.
Amid her thousand acquaintances in that brilliant world around the
throne there was not one who would not betray her confidence at the
moment any profit might be made out of it. Therefore she kept herself
to herself, and mixed with them only as etiquette or her father's policy
demanded.
George Macbean was, on his part, filled with wonder. She was actually
to marry Jules Dubard--that man of all men!
Surely her parents were in ignorance of who and what the fellow had
been; surely by his clever cunning and shrewd manoeuvring he had misled
even the sharp-eyed Minister himself, and induced him to give his
consent to his daughter's marriage.
He pitied Mary--pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He knew that
there must be some secret which she held and would not divulge; for if
not, why should she regard her forthcoming marriage with such a lack of
enthusiasm--why, indeed, should she purposely abstain from discussing
Dubard? He closely watched her, and recognised how she had sadly
changed since those bright days at Orton. Upon her brow was now a
settled expression of deep thought and sadness, and when she thought
herself unobserved a low sigh would sometimes escape, her, as though her
thoughts were bitter ones.
Was it possible that she suspected the truth concerning Jules Dubard?
Was it even possible that she was marrying him under compulsion?
In the silence of his own apartment he sat for hours, smoking his
English pipe and wondering, while the babel of sounds of the foreign
city came up from the street below. How strange were the ways of the
world, how bitter the ironies of life! He loved her--ah yes! He loved
her with all the passion of his soul, with all the deep and earnest
devotion of which an honest man is capable. Yet, poor as he was, merely
her father's underling, how could he ever hope to gain her hand? No, he
sighed day after day, it was hopeless--utterly hopeless. Hers was to be
a marriage of convenience--she was to wed Dubard, and become a countess.
But if he only dared to speak! He might save her--but at what cost?
His own disgrace and ruin.
And he bit his lip to the blood.
Fortune had lifted him out of the drudgery of Morgan-Mason's service and
brought him there to Rome, to a position of confidence envied by ten
thousand others. Could he possibly sacrifice his future, his very life,
just as it had suddenly opened up to him?
And he pondered on, meeting her, talking with her, and each hour falling
deeper under the spell of her marvellous grace and beauty.
Mary, on her part, was full of thought. A frightful gulf was opened
before her; she could not fly from its brink; she was goaded onwards
though she saw it yawning beneath her feet.
While sitting alone with her father in his room one evening she
approached the subject of Felice Solaro; but he instantly poured forth
such a flood of invectives upon the condemned man that she was compelled
to at once change the subject. To her it seemed that for some
unaccountable reason he was prejudiced against the imprisoned man, and
anything she might say in his favour only served to condemn him the
more.
On looking back upon the past, she found that she had regarded love as a
matter of everyday occurrence. She heard of it, saw it wherever she
moved; every man who approached her either felt or feigned it; and so
accustomed was she to homage and devotion that its absence alone
attracted her attention. She had considered it part of her state--and
yet of the real nature of true affection she had been perfectly
unconscious.
She had more than once imagined herself in love, as in the case of
Felice Solaro, mistaking gratified vanity for a deeper emotion--had felt
pleasure in the presence of its object, and regret in absence; but that
was a pastime and no more--until now.
But now! She held within her heart a deep secret--the secret of her
love.
And this rendered her future all the more serious--her marriage all the
more a fearful undertaking. She had no escape from her fate; she must
marry a man who at least was indifferent to her. Could she ever suffer
herself to be decked for this unpromising bridal, this union with a man
who at heart was the enemy of her family and whom she hated?
One evening she again met George Macbean. He had returned from Naples,
where he had executed a commission given him by the Minister, and had
reported to his chief his visit to the commandant of the military
district. He afterwards sat with Mary and her mother in one of the
smaller reception-rooms of the ponderous old mansion. Mary, who was in
a black dinner-dress slightly _decollete_, took up her mandoline--the
instrument of which he was so fond--and sang the old Tuscan song, in
which, with his heart so overburdened, he discerned a hidden meaning--
"Io questa notte in sogno l'ho veduto,
Era vestito tutto di broccato;
Le piume sul berretto di velluto,
Ed una spada d'oro aveva allato.
E poi m'ha detto con un bel sorriso.
Io non posso piu star da te diviso!
Da te diviso non ci posso stare,
E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!"
These words sank as iron into his soul. Did she, he wondered, really
reciprocate his concealed and unexpressed feelings? Ah no, it was
impossible--all impossible.
And when she had laid aside her instrument, he commenced to describe to
them the grand review of troops which he had witnessed outside Naples
that morning, and how the general staff had treated him as an honoured
guest.
"Ah!" sighed Madame Morini. "If we were to tell the truth, Mr Macbean,
both Mary and I are tired of the very sight of uniforms and the sound of
military music. Wherever my husband goes in Italy a review is always
included in the programme, and we have to endure the heat and the dust
of the march past. Once, when I was first married, I delighted in all
the glitter and display of armed forces, but nowadays I long and ever
long for retirement at dear old Orton."
"And so do I," declared her daughter quickly. "When I was at school in
England I used to look forward to the day when I would be presented at
the Quirinale and enter Roman society. But oh, the weariness of it all!
I have already become sick of its glare, its uncharitableness, and its
intrigues. England--yes--give me dear England, or else the quiet of San
Donato. You have never been there yet, Mr Macbean," she added, looking
into his face. "When you do go, you will find it more quiet and more
beautiful than Orton."
"I have no doubt," he said. "If it is in the Arno valley, I know how
beautiful the country is there, having passed up and down from Pisa many
times. Those are photographs of it in madame's boudoir--are they not?"
"Oh yes. Ah! then you've noticed them," she exclaimed. "It is a
delightful old place, is it not?" His eyes were fixed upon hers, and he
read in their dark depths the burden of sorrow that was there. Dubard
was due back in Rome, but he had not returned, nor had she mentioned the
reason. He wished to meet him--to observe what effect his presence
would have upon that man who had robbed him of all the happiness of
life.
The chiming of the little French clock reminded him that it was the hour
to take his leave, therefore he rose, grasped the hands of the grave,
kind-faced Englishwoman and her daughter, and went forth into the
old-world street, striding blindly on towards his own rooms.
"Really a delightful fellow," remarked her mother when the door had
closed behind him. "His English manners are refreshing after those of
all the apeish young fools whom we are compelled for the sake of policy
to entertain. But," she added, with a laugh, suddenly recollecting, "I
ought not to say that, my dear, now that you are to marry a Frenchman.
I married an Italian, and as far as my choice of a husband has gone, I
am thankful to say I have never regretted it--even though our natures
and our religions are different."
"I will never become a Catholic--never!" declared Mary decisively. "I
do not, and I shall never, believe in the confessional."
"Nor do I," responded her mother. "But there is no need for you to
change your religion. The count has already told me that he has no such
desire. By the way, he was due back the day before yesterday. Why has
he not returned?"
"I heard from him yesterday. He has gone down to the Pyrenees--on
business connected with the estate, he says;" and then, after some
further gossip regarding a charity bazaar at the German Embassy, at
which they were to hold a stall on the morrow, the unhappy girl rose,
and with uneven steps went along the gloomy, echoing corridors to her
own room.
Teresa brushed her long brown tresses as she sat before her long mirror
looking at the reflection of her pale face and wondering if the young
Englishman guessed the truth. Then as soon as possible she dismissed
her faithful serving-woman, and still sat in her chair, her mind
occupied by a thousand thoughts which chased each other in quick
succession.
One thought, in spite of all her efforts, she was unable to banish; it
returned again and again, and would intrude in spite of her struggles to
suppress it--the image of George Macbean, the man who had so suddenly
become her friend.
The night wore on, and in the silence of her pretty chamber she wept for
some time, abandoning herself to melancholy fancies; at length,
reproaching herself for thus permitting sorrow to usurp the place of
that resignation which the pure faith she had adopted ought to inspire,
she threw herself upon her knees and offered to Heaven the homage of an
afflicted and innocent heart.
As she rose from her knees the church bells of Rome were chiming one.
She shuddered at the solemn stroke, for every hour seemed to bring her
nearer the terrible self-sacrifice which she was compelled to make for
her father's sake. Her fears had risen almost to distraction, and she
had wept and prayed alternately in all the agonies of anxiety.
The truth that had now forced itself upon her held her aghast,
immovable. She loved George Macbean. Yes, she murmured his name aloud,
and her words sounded weird and distinct in the silence of the night.
Yet if she withdrew from her unholy agreement with the man who had
forced her to give her promise, then the hounds of destruction would be
let loose upon her house.
And her father? She had discovered in the drawer of his carved
writing-table at San Donato that tiny tube of innocent-looking tabloids;
and though she kept the secret to herself, she had guessed his
intention.
Could she deliberately allow him to sacrifice his life when there was
still a means open whereby to save him?
She sank again upon her knees by the bedside, and greyed long for Divine
help and deliverance.