Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

back the day before yesterday. Why hashe not returned?"

  "I heard from him yesterday. He has gone down to the Pyrenees--onbusiness connected with the estate, he says;" and then, after somefurther gossip regarding a charity bazaar at the German Embassy, atwhich they were to hold a stall on the morrow, the unhappy girl rose,and with uneven steps went along the gloomy, echoing corridors to herown room.

  Teresa brushed her long brown tresses as she sat before her long mirrorlooking at the reflection of her pale face and wondering if the youngEnglishman guessed the truth. Then as soon as possible she dismissedher faithful serving-woman, and still sat in her chair, her mindoccupied by a thousand thoughts which chased each other in quicksuccession.

  One thought, in spite of all her efforts, she was unable to banish; itreturned again and again, and would intrude in spite of her struggles tosuppress it--the image of George Macbean, the man who had so suddenlybecome her friend.

  The night wore on, and in the silence of her pretty chamber she wept forsome time, abandoning herself to melancholy fancies; at length,reproaching herself for thus permitting sorrow to usurp the place ofthat resignation which the pure faith she had adopted ought to inspire,she threw herself upon her knees and offered to Heaven the homage of anafflicted 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 hernearer the terrible self-sacrifice which she was compelled to make forher father's sake. Her fears had risen almost to distraction, and shehad 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 hadforced her to give her promise, then the hounds of destruction would belet loose upon her house.

  And her father? She had discovered in the drawer of his carvedwriting-table at San Donato that tiny tube of innocent-looking tabloids;and though she kept the secret to herself, she had guessed hisintention.

  Could she deliberately allow him to sacrifice his life when there wasstill a means open whereby to save him?

  She sank again upon her knees by the bedside, and greyed long for Divinehelp and deliverance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

  MRS FITZROY'S GOVERNESS.

  Mrs Charles Fitzroy was delighted with her new Italian governess.

  She had contemplated engaging a Frenchwoman or a Swiss to teach littleBertha, but most fortunately, General Borselli, whom she had met duringa season spent with her husband in Rome, came to her aid and recommendedthe daughter of the deceased Colonel Nodari. She came, and her slight,rather tall figure in neat black, her well-cut, handsome features, andher plainly dressed hair, almost black, had attracted her mistress fromthe first. She was refined, unobtrusive, merry-eyed, and just the kindof bright companion and governess she required for her child. Shenoticed that although her dresses were well made there were tokens, inmore ways than one, that since her father's death she and her mother hadfallen upon evil days.

  Fitzroy himself liked her. There was something interesting in herquaint broken English and in her foreign gestures that commended itselfto him in preference to the angular blue-stocking Miss Gardener, who hadrecently left his wife's service. So "Mademoiselle," as they called herin preference to the rather ugly word "Signorina," quickly became as oneof the family, and within a week of her arrival she met that pompousmillionaire of eggs and bacon, Mr Morgan-Mason.

  The latter became as much attracted by her as were the others, but sheexerted no effort to captivate or to gain admiration, merely acting herpart modestly as became the humble governess in a wealthy family.Nevertheless she recollected the general's instructions, and more thanonce, in the secrecy of her room, wrote to that address in Genoareporting her progress.

  Mrs Charles Fitzroy, a pretty and rather extravagant woman, still onthe right side of forty, moved in a very good set, and entertained agood deal at her house in Brook Street. Her husband was a magnate inthe city, and the fact that Morgan-Mason was her brother gave her the_entree_ to houses which would have otherwise been closed to her.Fitzroy, a rather short, grey-bearded man with a florid countenance, hadrisen from a clerk's stool to be what he was, and differed in littleparticular from thousands of well-off city men who live in the West Endand enter the anteroom of society.

  Nevertheless, through the influence of the white-waistcoated Member forSouth-West Norfolk, a good many well-known people dined at Brook Streetfrom time to time, while to Morgan-Mason's smart gatherings at his houseor his dinners at the Carlton his sister and her husband were alwaysinvited.

  It was pleasant enough to mix with such people as surrounded heremployers, but, truth to tell, Filomena Nodari quickly found the post ofgoverness monotonous and irksome. First of all, it was difficult forher to preserve her unassuming character as a paid menial; secondly, shehated children; thirdly, Bertha was a spoilt child, with no leaningtowards lessons; and fourthly, the small bare schoolroom at the top ofthe house was a gloomy place in which to spend those bright spring days.Still, she never complained. She was well paid by the Minister of War,and with a woman's love of intrigue, she had set herself to carefullyaccomplish the difficult task which Borselli had given her.

  She was fortunate, inasmuch as Mrs Fitzroy treated her with suchconsideration. Indeed, sometimes when there were no visitors, she wouldinvite her in to lunch with her, when they would generally talk French,a language with which her mistress was well acquainted.

  So well did she act her part that the governess was quickly voted atreasure, and as Bertha was a particular favourite of her UncleMorgan-Mason, the latter became gradually interested in her. Sometimes,indeed, he would come up to the schoolroom while lessons were inprogress with an excuse to leave a packet of sweetmeats for his niece;but Filomena, with her woman's shrewd intuition, knew that he came tohave a little chat with her.

  He was inquisitive--always inquisitive.

  One day as he sat with Bertha upon his knee in the schoolroom he askedabout her parentage.

  "You are a native of Bologna--where the sausages come from?" he laughed.

  Perhaps he sold that comestible at his many shops, she reflected, butshe answered in her broken English--

  "Yes. But just as none of straw hats are made in Leghorn, so there arenone of Bologna sausages made in Bologna."

  "You must be already tired of life here in London after your beautifulItaly?" he remarked.

  "Ah! non," she assured him. "I like your London--what leetle I haveseen of it. But that is not very much. I take Bertha for one walk inthe park, or down to what you call Kensington, every day. And manytimes we ascend to the roof of an omnibus. But omnibuses are sopuzzling," she added, with a laugh. "You never know where one goes. Wealways ascend and seet there till we come to the end of the voyage. Butwe make some amusing errors many times. Only the day before to-day weascended on a 'bus outside the Gallery Nationale, where are thefountains, paid twenty centimes--I mean two pennies--_eh bien_! the nextstreet-corner past a church they turned us off--the omnibus went nofarther!"

  The millionaire laughed aloud, saying--

  "It must have been a Royal Oak or Cricklewood 'bus coming home. They gono farther than Charing Cross."

  "But oh!" she continued, "we go many time a long, long way--out into thecountry--away from London. Once we went on and on till I thought wewould never arrest--right on till we came to a small town down by theriver--Tweet-ham--Tweek-ham--the conductor called it, or something likethat. Your English names are so very difficult. There was an island inthe river, and an old church close by."

  "Twickenham! You mean Twickenham!" he exclaimed. "Fancy your going sofar on an omnibus! Your adventures, mademoiselle, must have beenamusing."

  "Ah yes. But poor madame! We did not return till seven of the clock,a
nd she was fearing something had happened."

  "Naturally," he said. "But let me give you a word of advice,mademoiselle. Be very careful where you go. London is not at all safefor a foreign lady like yourself, more especially if her face is asattractive as yours."

  "Oh!" she laughed. "Mine has no attraction, surely. And I tell you,m'sieur, that I am not in the least afraid."

  He had expected her to be impressed by his flattery, but she was not.On the contrary, she passed his remark as though it had never beenuttered, and continued to relate to him her impressions of London andLondon life, some of which were distinctly humorous, for the streets ofour metropolis always strike the foreigner as full of quaintincongruities, from the balancing of the hansom cab to the kilt of theHighland soldier.

  He found her conversation amusing and interesting. She was somehowdifferent from the