For Mary Morini the world was full of base intrigue and
uncharitableness, of untruth and false friendship. Four years ago she
had returned to Italy from that quiet school at Broadstairs to find
herself plunged suddenly into a circle of society, torn by all the
conflicting failings of the human heart. The world which she had
believed to be so full of beauty was only a wild, stormy waste, whereon
each traveller was compelled to fight and battle for reputation and for
life. Already world-weary before her time, she was nauseated by the
hollow shams about her, tired of the glare of those gilded salons, and
appalled by the intrigues on every hand--the intrigues which had for
their object her father's ruin and the sacrifice of all her love, her
youth, and happiness.
Often she asked herself if there could be any element of good remaining
in such a world as hers. She tried it by the test of her religious
principle and found it selfish, indolent, and vain, attracting and
swallowing up all who lived within the sphere of its contaminating
influence. She had believed herself adapted to the exercise of her
affections, that she might love, and trust, and hope to the utmost of
her wishes; but, alas! hers had been a rude awakening, and the stern
realities of life were to her a cruel and bitter revelation.
In her Christian meekness she constantly sought Divine guidance, even
though compelled to live amid that gay whirl of Rome; for the date of
her marriage was rapidly approaching, the day when the man to whom she
had bartered herself in exchange for her father's life would come
forward and claim her.
The season, as society knew it, was far advanced, and although her mind
was filled by those grave suspicions conjured up by Solaro's
allegations, she frequently met and talked with George Macbean. His
duties as her father's secretary took him to the palace a great deal,
and sometimes of an evening they met at various official functions to
which the young Englishman had also been bidden.
Out of the very poverty and the feebleness of her life, out of sheer
desperation, she became drawn towards him, and the bond of friendship
became still more closely cemented, even though those suspicions ever
arose within her. He was Dubard's friend--he had admitted that to her--
and as Dubard's friend she mistrusted him.
She had no friend in whom she could confide, or of whom she might ask
advice. She exchanged few such confidences with her mother, while she
was unable to reveal to her father her secret visit to Solaro's prison
for fear of his displeasure. It was at this crisis of her young life
that she felt the absolute want of a participator in her joys, a
recipient of her secrets, and a soother of her sorrows, and it was this
sense of utter loneliness which rendered the young Englishman's society
so welcome to her.
Weeks had passed since her painful interview with poor Solaro. The dull
burden of accumulated sorrows hung heavily upon her. She had begun
afresh. She had made a fresh dedication of her heart to God. She had
commenced her patient work of unravelling the mystery of the great
intrigue by which to save her father, and to escape herself from the
fate to which she was consigned--she had commenced the work as though it
had never been undertaken before, supported by Christian faith, and ever
striving not to prejudge the man whose friendship had now become so
necessary to her existence.
What the unfortunate prisoner had told her, however, had opened her eyes
to many plain facts, the chief of them being that Borselli had, by his
suggestion that she should secure the captain's release, endeavoured to
induce her to bring ruin upon her own father. For the Minister to sign
a decree of pardon now was impossible. Such an action must inevitably
cause his downfall; therefore it was necessary that the captain should
remain in prison, although innocent.
In Rome a sudden tranquillity had fallen upon the face of that
ever-changing political world around the throne. Mary, who was seen at
every ball and at every official dinner, still retained her golden and
exuberant youth, her joyous step, her sweet smile, and the world
believed her very happy. She was to marry Jules Dubard. But at home,
in the hours of loneliness in her own room, there fell upon her the grim
tragedy of it all, and she shed tears, bitter tears, because she was
still fettered, still unable to discover the truth.
Two years ago she had possessed all the freshness of unwearied nature,
the glow of health, that life-spring of all the energies of thought and
action--the power to believe as well as to hope--the earnestness of zeal
unchilled by disappointment, the first awakening of joy, the clear
perception of a mind unbiassed in its search of truth, the fervour of an
untroubled soul. But alas! the world had now disappointed her. Like
Felice Solaro, like her father, she too had fallen a victim of those
unscrupulous persons whose base craft and low cunning were alike
mysterious and unfathomable.
George Macbean, watching her as closely as he did, realised the gradual
change in her, and was much puzzled. True, she wore the same
magnificent Paris-made gowns, was as humorous and irresponsible, and
laughed as gaily as she had done in those summer days in England. Yet
sometimes, as they sat alone, he detected that burden of grief and
sadness that oppressed her mind. Soon she was to marry Dubard, yet her
attitude was by no means that of the self-satisfied bride. Ignorant of
the bitter reflections within her, he was, of course, much mystified at
those gloomy, despairing words that sometimes involuntarily fell from
her lips. He did not know, as she so vividly realised, that the day she
married Jules Dubard her beloved father would again be at the mercy of
those who sought his downfall.
Her Excellency had suggested a visit to Paris for the trousseau, but
this she had declined. She had no desire for the gaiety which a visit
to the French capital would entail. Therefore all the dresses and
_lingerie_ were being made in Florence and Rome; a magnificent
trousseau, which a princess of the blood might have envied, for Camillo
Morini never spared any expense where his daughter was concerned.
Yet she scarcely looked at the rich and costly things as they arrived in
huge boxfuls, but ordered Teresa to put them aside, sighing within
herself that the world was so soon to make merry over the great tragedy
of her life.
Dubard was still at Bayonne, detained on business connected with his
estate. He wrote frequently, and, much against her own inclination, she
was compelled to reply to his letters. More than one person in her own
set remarked upon the prolonged absence of the popular young Frenchman
who had become so well known in the Eternal City, but only one person
guessed the true reason--and that person was George Macbean.
Late one afternoon she had been driving on the Pincio, as was her habit
each day. She was alone, her mother being too unwell to go out, and
just as the _passeggiata_, or fashionable promenade, was over, she
passed the young Englishman walking alone. She bowed and drove on, but
presently stopped her victoria, alighted, and telling the coachman that
she would walk home, dismissed him.
Most of the carriages had already left that beautiful hill-garden from
the terraces of which one obtains such wonderful panoramas of the
ancient city, and it being nearly six o'clock, the promenaders were now
mostly Cookites, the women bloused and tweed-skirted, and the men in
various costumes of England, from the inevitable blue serge suit to the
breeches and golf-cap of "the seaside,"--people with whom she was
unacquainted. In a few moments they met, and he turned happily and
walked in her direction.
"I'm cramped," she declared. "I've been in the carriage nearly three
mortal hours, first paying calls with father, and then here alone. I
saw you, so it was a good opportunity of getting a walk. You go to the
Princess Palmieri's to-night, I suppose?"
"Yes, Her Highness has sent me a card," he answered--"thanks to your
father, I suppose." As she walked beside him, in a beautiful gown of
pale dove grey with a large black hat, he glanced at her admiringly and
added, "I saw in to-day's _Tribuna_ that the count is expected back in
two or three days. Have you had news of him?"
"I received a letter yesterday--from Biarritz. He is with his aunt, who
is very unwell, and is paying a dutiful visit before coming here."
In silence they walked on, passing the water-clock and descending the
hill until they came to that small piazza with the stone balustrade that
affords such a magnificent vista of the ancient city. Here they halted
to enjoy the view, as the tourists were enjoying it. The wonderful
Eternal City with its hundred towers lay below them in the calm golden
mist of evening. It was a scene she had looked upon hundreds of times,
yet at that moment she was attracted by the crowd of "personally
conducted" who stood at the stone balustrade and gazed away in the
direction of where the huge dome of St Peter's loomed up through the
haze. Like many a cosmopolitan, she took a mischievous delight in
mingling with a crowd of English tourists and hearing their comments
upon things Italian--remarks that were often drily humorous. She stood
at her companion's side, chatting with him while the light faded, the
glorious afterglow died away, and the tourists, recollecting the hour of
their respective _tables d'hote_, descended the hill to the city. And
then, when they were alone, he turned to her and, with a touch of
bitterness in his voice, said--
"I suppose very soon you will leave Rome and live in Paris. Has the
count made any plans?"
"We live this summer at the chateau," was her answer. "The winter he
intends to spend on the Riviera."
"And Rome will lose you!" he exclaimed in regret. "At the Countess
Bardi's last night they were discussing it, and everyone expressed
sorrow that you should leave them."
She sighed deeply, and in her eyes he thought he detected the light of
tears.
"For many things I shall really not be sorry to leave Rome," she
answered blankly. "Only I wish I were going to live in dear old
England. I have no love for Paris, and the artificiality of the Riviera
I detest. It is the plague-spot of Europe. What people can really see
in it beyond the attraction of gambling I never can understand. The
very atmosphere is hateful to anyone with a spark of self-respect."
They were leaning on the old grey stonework, their faces turned to the
darkening valley where wound the Tiber, the centre of the civilisation
of all the ages, the great misty void wherein the lights were already
beginning to twinkle.
Furtively he glanced at her countenance, and saw upon her white brow a
look of deep, resigned despair. He loved her--this beautiful woman who
was to sacrifice herself to the man who he knew had entrapped her, and
yet whom he dare not denounce for fear of incriminating himself. He,
who worshipped her--who loved her in truth and in silence as no man had
ever loved a woman--was compelled to stand by and witness the tragedy!
Night after night, when he thought of it as he paced his room, he
clenched his hands in sheer despair and cried to himself in agony.
Dubard was to be her husband--Jules Dubard, the man who, knowing of his
presence in Rome, feared to return to claim her as his wife!
"You are very silent, Miss Mary!" he managed to say at last, watching
her pale, beautiful face set away towards the dark valley.
"I was thinking," she answered, turning slowly, facing him, and looking
straight into his eyes.
"Of what?"
"Shall I tell you frankly?"
"Certainly," he said, smiling. "You are always frank with me, are you
not?"
"Well, I was thinking of a man who was once my friend--a man whom I
believe you have cause to remember," she replied in a meaning tone--"a
man named Felice Solaro!"
"Felice Solaro!" he gasped, quickly starting back, his cheeks blanching
as he repeated the name. "If Felice Solaro is a friend of yours, Miss
Mary, then he has probably told you the truth--the ghastly truth?" he
cried hoarsely, as his face fell. "He has revealed to you the mystery
concerning General Sazarac! Tell me--tell me what allegation has he
made against me?"