question of the Morinis,"his uncle said. "It got abroad last year that Morini held some veryhigh position in Rome. Young Barton, the schoolmaster at Kilworth, wentwith one of Lunn's tours to Italy, and when he came back he told anextraordinary story of how the party were being shown the outside of oneof the public offices when a gentleman descended from a carriage whichdrove into the courtyard, and as he entered the sentries saluted. Tohis surprise he recognised him as Mr Morini, and on inquiry understoodfrom one of the doorkeepers that he was His Excellency the Minister ofWar. Of course nobody believed him. But I've looked in `Whitaker,'and, strangely enough, it gives Signor Camillo Morini as Minister ofWar!"
"Ah, my dear uncle," laughed Macbean, "of course regard it as entirelyconfidential, but what Barton discovered is the truth. Signor Morini isa member of the Italian Cabinet, and one of the most prominentpersonages in Italy--and they actually believe him _here_ to be anadventurer!" he laughed. "But," he added, "you haven't told me aboutDubard."
"I know practically nothing, except that he stayed at Orton for a monthlast summer, and was very attentive to Mary. And as he's here againthis season, the gossips say they are engaged. He is a rich man, Ihear, with estates in the Pyrenees."
George Macbean's lip curled slightly, and he gave vent to a distinctsniff of dissatisfaction. He had recognised him as they had passed onthe 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 tothe Minister's daughter, was utterly staggering. Yet rumour did not saythere was really an engagement--or at least it had not been formallyannounced.
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 hismemory by sight of that pale, narrow face with the brown moustache--ascene that caused his hands to clench themselves and his teeth to closetogether 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 wellthese gossiping villages, and I hold the law of slander in too great adread. The count is all right," he laughed. "A very nice fellow, yousaid."
His uncle saw that he had no intention of saying a word against thevisitor at Orton, and yet at the same time it was apparent that he heldhim in distinct mistrust. Yet, after all, reflected the rector, it wascurious that George had not recognised him at once.
Macbean sat back watching the smoke curl slowly up, plunged in deepreflection. That man of all others was to marry Mary Morini! What acruel vagary of Fate! Did she really love the fellow? he wondered. Hadhis elegant airs and graces, his stiff poses, and French effeminacyreally attracted her? To him it seemed impossible. She was too sweetand womanly, too modest and full of the higher ideals of life, to allowthat veneer of polish to deceive her. It might be, of course, that themarriage was to be one of convenience--that the Minister wished hisdaughter to become a French countess with an ancient title like that ofDubard--yet he could not conceive that she would of her own free willmarry such a man.
Evidently His Excellency Camillo Morini was in blind ignorance of thecharacter of his guest, or he would never for a moment entertain him inthe bosom of his family.
If they were really engaged, then her future was at stake. He aloneknew the truth--that ghastly, amazing truth--and it was therefore hisbounden duty to go to her and frankly tell her all that he knew--orbetter, to seek an interview with the Minister and place the factsbefore him.
When he had bidden his uncle good-night and mounted to the smallold-fashioned bedroom, he blew out the candle and sat at the open windowgazing out upon the wide stretch of pasture land white in the moonbeams,reviewing the whole situation and endeavouring to decide upon the bestcourse of action.
Mary Morini had charmed him with her sweet face and piquantecosmopolitan manner, yet at that same moment he had made a discoverythat held him dumb in amazement. He recognised that she was in deadlyperil--how deadly she little dreamed, and that to save her--to save thehonour of her family--he must tell the truth.
He saw before him the tragedy of silence, and yet, alas! his lips weresealed.
To utter one single word of what he knew would be to bring upon himselfopprobrium, disgrace, ruin!
CHAPTER FIVE.
IS MAINLY ABOUT A WOMAN.
George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.
When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his unclehis intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had togive a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and wouldtherefore not be able to accompany him.
So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose himand thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted androde away down the white, dusty highroad.
Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, androde over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, toOrton.
Eleven o'clock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling,but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long,well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed thestudy window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit oflight grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellencyhimself.
In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared,whereupon he asked--
"Is Count Dubard at home?"
"The count left this morning by the nine o'clock train."
"Left!" echoed Macbean. "And is he not returning?"
"I think not, sir. He took his luggage. But I will inquire if you'llstep in a moment."
The man had conducted him across the wide old-fashioned stone hall intoa pleasant morning-room which looked out upon the flower-garden and wasflooded with sunshine, and after the lapse of a few moments the doorreopened and there entered Mary herself, a charming figure in a freshwhite blouse and linen skirt.
"Why, Mr Macbean!" she cried, extending her hand gaily. "You are quitean unexpected visitor! Davis says you want to see Count Dubard. Heleft for Paris this morning."
"And is he not coming back?"
"No, I believe not," was her answer. "He received a letter this morningcalling him to Paris at once, and dashed off to try and catch the eleveno'clock service from Charing Cross. He just had time, he said. He wasanxious to see you, I think."
"Anxious to see me--why?" asked Macbean quickly.
"Last night he told me that he recognised you as you were driving homewith Mr Sinclair, and asked if I knew you. I, of course, told him thatyou had been playing tennis here. He seemed very eager to see you, andmade quite a lot of inquiries about you."
Her companion was silent. The recognition had been mutual, then, andthe story of the urgent letter was only an excuse of the Frenchman's toescape from a very ugly and compromising position! His flight showedMacbean that the fellow was in fear of him, and yet he had fortunatelyavoided a scene between them, and a result which, in all probability,might have caused his own ruin.
He looked at the bright, sweet-faced woman before him, and wondered--wondered how she could allow her affection to be attracted towards sucha fellow. And yet what an admirable actor the man was! She was, alas!in ignorance of it all.
How could he tell her? To explain, would only be to condemn himself.No. He resolved that for the present he must conceal his secret--forhis own sake. Nevertheless how strange it was, he thought, that heshould thus suddenly be drawn so closely towards her. Yesterday she wasa mere acquaintance of the tea-table and the tennis-lawn, like dozens ofother girls he knew, while to-day he was there as her friend andprotector, the man who intended to save her and her family from theingenious trap that he now saw was already prepared.
"I'm sorry he's gone," he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, "I knewhim long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he wasa gue
st here."
"He too said he wanted very much to see you," she remarked brightly."But you'll meet again very soon, no doubt. I shall tell him of yourinquiries when I write, for he spoke of you in the warmest terms. I didnot know your address in London, so I gave him Mr Sinclair's. I'm sosorry he's gone," she added. "We were to have all gone for a picnicto-day over to Kenilworth."
"And instead of that the central attraction has disappeared," hehazarded, with a smile.
"What do you mean by `central attraction'?" she asked, flushingslightly.
"My friend Dubard, of course. I suppose what everyone says is correct,Miss Morini, and therefore I may be permitted to congratulate you uponyour engagement to my friend?"
"Oh, there is no engagement, I
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