Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

added in astrange tone, his eyes turned towards the sunlit lawn, over which oldHayes, the groom-gardener, was running the machine.

  "I ought to have called to congratulate her, but as you know I onlyreturned last night from doing duty over at Eye. I ought to drive overafter tea. Is the count there?"

  "No. When we left Rome I came straight to London on some urgent privatebusiness of His Excellency's, and they remained a week in Paris, whereDubard was--to complete the trousseau, I suppose."

  "It is one of Mary's whims to be married by special licence by the Canonat Orton, I've heard. Is that so?" asked Sinclair.

  The young man nodded. He had no desire to discuss the tragedy, for heknew well that the marriage was a loveless one, and although his ownaffection had been unspoken, he was beside himself with grief anddespair. He, who knew the truth, yet dare not utter one single word tosave her!

  For ten days he had been in London, staying at his old chambers withBilly Grenfell, and transacting business at the ItalianConsulate-General connected with the formalities of the marriage,formalities which were expedited because his employer was Minister ofWar. Paragraphs had crept into the press, the ladies' papers hadpublished Mary's portrait, and the marriage, because it was to takeplace in a village church, was called a "romantic" one.

  George Macbean smiled bitterly when he recollected how much more oftragedy than romance there was in it. He adored her; for months herface had been the very sun of his existence, and in those recent weeksthey had become so closely associated that even her mother had lookedsomewhat askance at the secretary's attentions, to which she had seemedin no way averse. A bond of sincerest sympathy had drawn them together.She was in no way given to flirtation; not even her bitterest enemies,those jealous women who were always ready to create scandal and inventuntruths about her, could charge her with that. No. She had acceptedGeorge's warm, platonic friendship in the spirit it was given, at thesame time ever struggling to stifle down that strange and startlingallegation which Felice Solaro had made against him.

  The very world seemed united against her, for even in George Macbean,the man whom she had believed to be the ideal of honesty anduprightness, she dared not put her absolute trust.

  "The Court is full of visitors," George remarked a few minutes later,"so I thought I'd come here and stay. I can drive over there every day.Next week we go back to Rome again for another month, and then hisExcellency returns on leave to England."

  "You're cultivating quite an official air, my dear boy," exclaimed therector, refilling his pipe and glad to change the subject ofconversation. "Your letters to me headed `Ministry of War--FirstDivision' are most imposing documents. I'd like to have a trot roundRome with you. I've never been farther than Boulogne--seven-and-sixpence worth of sea-sickness from Folkestone--and I don'tthink much of foreign parts, if that's a specimen of them."

  Macbean smiled at his uncle's bluff remarks, and then fell to giving himsome description of the Minister's palace in Rome, and of his positionin the society of the Eternal City.

  After early tea Hayes brought round the trap, and the two men drove overto Orton Court, where, on entering, there were signs everywhere for thecoming event, which, now that it was known who Camillo Morini reallywas, created much excitement throughout the countryside. The decisionthat the marriage should take place in England had been quite a suddenone--but, curiously enough, it had been at Dubard's own instigation.George had gathered that fact, and it held him mystified. Thebridegroom had some hidden reason in making that suggestion.

  The instant the rector saw Mary he recognised what a change had takenplace in her. Within himself he asked whether it was due to the secretthat his nephew had confessed to him. Standing in the long,old-fashioned drawing-room, with its big bowls of roses, he apologisedfor not calling earlier, and congratulated her; whereupon she respondedin a quiet, inert voice--

  "It is very kind of you, Mr Sinclair--very kind indeed. I don't knowif you've had a card, it has all been done in such a rush, but you willcome on Thursday, won't you?"

  He accepted with pleasure, and glancing at his nephew, saw that theyoung man's face told its own sad tale.

  "Has not the count arrived?" asked Macbean of her.

  "No. I had a wire this morning. He leaves Paris to-night, so he'll behere after luncheon to-morrow."

  Leaving Sinclair with Mary, George went along to the study, where hefound the Minister busy with some important despatches which had justarrived by special messenger from the Italian Embassy in London,therefore he was compelled to seat himself at the table opposite andassist his chief.

  So long did the correspondence take that the rector and his nephew wereinvited to remain to dine informally, George being placed, to his greatdelight, next the unhappy woman whom he so dearly loved. It was thelast time he would dine with her, he told himself during the meal, andthrough his brain crowded memories of those happy hours spent at herside amid the brilliant glitter of the salons in Rome when, althoughhundreds were around him, he had only eyes for her, and her alone. Andhe, by that relentless fate that held him silent, was compelled to standby and watch her noble self-sacrifice!

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

  "SILENCE FOR SILENCE!"

  On the following night, as eleven o'clock slowly chimed from the pointedsteeple of Orton church, George Macbean was walking along the narrowpath that led from the highroad to Rugby first across the widecornfields and then through the small dark wood until he reached theriver bank. Here he halted at a low stile which barred the path, andwaited.

  Before him ran the river grey and placid beneath the clouded moon,behind him the pitch darkness of the covert where hounds were alwayscertain of finding a fox or two in the course of the season. The cry ofa night bird, the rustling of a rat among the rushes, and the distanthowl of a dog up at the village were the only sounds that broke thequiet. Not a breath of wind ruffled the surface of the deep stream, nota leaf was stirred until of a sudden there came the sound of footsteps,and the dark figure of a man loomed up against the misty grey.

  "Eh bien?" inquired the man in French as he approached; for thenew-comer was none other than Jules Dubard. He was staying at an hotelin Rugby, and they had met that afternoon under Morini's roof, greatlyto the Frenchman's surprise. But he had managed to conceal his chagrin,to greet the secretary so that none should suspect the truth, and now,at Macbean's suggestion, had come forth to meet him alone.

  The pair were once again face to face.

  "And well?" George asked, speaking in the same language the Frenchmanhad used. "It is I who should demand the reason of your presence here,m'sieur."

  "Ah, my dear friend," replied the other, "this is a meeting veryfortunate for me, for it enables me to say something which I have longwanted to say."

  "I have no wish to hear you. I only demand the reason you are here--aguest in the Minister's house."

  "You surely know," he laughed airily. "Am I not to marry MademoiselleMarie?"

  "You have schemed to do so, I know."

  "Well, well," he remarked philosophically, "we are both schemers--are wenot, my dear George? In scheming, however, so very little is certain.But in this world one thing is certain--namely, that Mademoiselle Mariewill become Comtesse Dubard at three o'clock on the day afterto-morrow."

  The two men were standing quite close to each other, and in that greylight could readily watch the expression of each other's faces.

  "It is your intention, no doubt," answered Macbean. "But during themonth I have been in Rome I have not been idle. I have learned howAngelo Borselli still holds you in the hollow of his hand, and howcleverly he has made you his cat's-paw to ruin and disgrace Morini.Listen, and if I speak an untruth deny it. Ever since the Sazaracaffair you and Borselli have actively conspired against Camillo Morini.The Under-Secretary, with your assistance, had arranged a political_coup_, but in order to compel Miss Mary to give her consent to thisscandalous marriage, you have induced Borselli to stay his hand. Youare forcing her to
marry you, in order to save her father from ruin andprobably from suicide, well knowing, however, what Borselli's intentionsare, as soon as she is your wife and you have obtained her _dot_! Youintend--"

  "Look here, hound! Did you ask me to come here to insult me?" cried theFrenchman in fury, advancing a pace in a threatening manner.

  "You have said you have something to say to me," was his response. "Butbefore you say it, I wish to make plain what are my intentions."

  "And what are they, pray?"

  "I intend to prevent Mary Morini making this sacrifice," was his quiet,determined reply.

  "You love her yourself! Friends of mine have watched you in