alas! the world had now disappointed her. LikeFelice Solaro, like her father, she too had fallen a victim of thoseunscrupulous persons whose base craft and low cunning were alikemysterious and unfathomable.
George Macbean, watching her as closely as he did, realised the gradualchange in her, and was much puzzled. True, she wore the samemagnificent Paris-made gowns, was as humorous and irresponsible, andlaughed as gaily as she had done in those summer days in England. Yetsometimes, as they sat alone, he detected that burden of grief andsadness that oppressed her mind. Soon she was to marry Dubard, yet herattitude was by no means that of the self-satisfied bride. Ignorant ofthe bitter reflections within her, he was, of course, much mystified atthose gloomy, despairing words that sometimes involuntarily fell fromher lips. He did not know, as she so vividly realised, that the day shemarried Jules Dubard her beloved father would again be at the mercy ofthose who sought his downfall.
Her Excellency had suggested a visit to Paris for the trousseau, butthis she had declined. She had no desire for the gaiety which a visitto the French capital would entail. Therefore all the dresses and_lingerie_ were being made in Florence and Rome; a magnificenttrousseau, which a princess of the blood might have envied, for CamilloMorini never spared any expense where his daughter was concerned.
Yet she scarcely looked at the rich and costly things as they arrived inhuge boxfuls, but ordered Teresa to put them aside, sighing withinherself that the world was so soon to make merry over the great tragedyof her life.
Dubard was still at Bayonne, detained on business connected with hisestate. He wrote frequently, and, much against her own inclination, shewas compelled to reply to his letters. More than one person in her ownset remarked upon the prolonged absence of the popular young Frenchmanwho had become so well known in the Eternal City, but only one personguessed the true reason--and that person was George Macbean.
Late one afternoon she had been driving on the Pincio, as was her habiteach day. She was alone, her mother being too unwell to go out, andjust as the _passeggiata_, or fashionable promenade, was over, shepassed the young Englishman walking alone. She bowed and drove on, butpresently stopped her victoria, alighted, and telling the coachman thatshe would walk home, dismissed him.
Most of the carriages had already left that beautiful hill-garden fromthe terraces of which one obtains such wonderful panoramas of theancient city, and it being nearly six o'clock, the promenaders were nowmostly Cookites, the women bloused and tweed-skirted, and the men invarious costumes of England, from the inevitable blue serge suit to thebreeches and golf-cap of "the seaside,"--people with whom she wasunacquainted. In a few moments they met, and he turned happily andwalked in her direction.
"I'm cramped," she declared. "I've been in the carriage nearly threemortal hours, first paying calls with father, and then here alone. Isaw you, so it was a good opportunity of getting a walk. You go to thePrincess Palmieri's to-night, I suppose?"
"Yes, Her Highness has sent me a card," he answered--"thanks to yourfather, I suppose." As she walked beside him, in a beautiful gown ofpale dove grey with a large black hat, he glanced at her admiringly andadded, "I saw in to-day's _Tribuna_ that the count is expected back intwo or three days. Have you had news of him?"
"I received a letter yesterday--from Biarritz. He is with his aunt, whois very unwell, and is paying a dutiful visit before coming here."
In silence they walked on, passing the water-clock and descending thehill until they came to that small piazza with the stone balustrade thataffords such a magnificent vista of the ancient city. Here they haltedto enjoy the view, as the tourists were enjoying it. The wonderfulEternal City with its hundred towers lay below them in the calm goldenmist of evening. It was a scene she had looked upon hundreds of times,yet at that moment she was attracted by the crowd of "personallyconducted" who stood at the stone balustrade and gazed away in thedirection of where the huge dome of St Peter's loomed up through thehaze. Like many a cosmopolitan, she took a mischievous delight inmingling with a crowd of English tourists and hearing their commentsupon things Italian--remarks that were often drily humorous. She stoodat her companion's side, chatting with him while the light faded, theglorious afterglow died away, and the tourists, recollecting the hour oftheir respective _tables d'hote_, descended the hill to the city. Andthen, when they were alone, he turned to her and, with a touch ofbitterness in his voice, said--
"I suppose very soon you will leave Rome and live in Paris. Has thecount made any plans?"
"We live this summer at the chateau," was her answer. "The winter heintends to spend on the Riviera."
"And Rome will lose you!" he exclaimed in regret. "At the CountessBardi's last night they were discussing it, and everyone expressedsorrow that you should leave them."
She sighed deeply, and in her eyes he thought he detected the light oftears.
"For many things I shall really not be sorry to leave Rome," sheanswered blankly. "Only I wish I were going to live in dear oldEngland. I have no love for Paris, and the artificiality of the RivieraI detest. It is the plague-spot of Europe. What people can really seein it beyond the attraction of gambling I never can understand. Thevery atmosphere is hateful to anyone with a spark of self-respect."
They were leaning on the old grey stonework, their faces turned to thedarkening valley where wound the Tiber, the centre of the civilisationof all the ages, the great misty void wherein the lights were alreadybeginning to twinkle.
Furtively he glanced at her countenance, and saw upon her white brow alook of deep, resigned despair. He loved her--this beautiful woman whowas to sacrifice herself to the man who he knew had entrapped her, andyet 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 hadever 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, heclenched his hands in sheer despair and cried to himself in agony.
Dubard was to be her husband--Jules Dubard, the man who, knowing of hispresence in Rome, feared to return to claim her as his wife!
"You are very silent, Miss Mary!" he managed to say at last, watchingher pale, beautiful face set away towards the dark valley.
"I was thinking," she answered, turning slowly, facing him, and lookingstraight into his eyes.
"Of what?"
"Shall I tell you frankly?"
"Certainly," he said, smiling. "You are always frank with me, are younot?"
"Well, I was thinking of a man who was once my friend--a man whom Ibelieve you have cause to remember," she replied in a meaning tone--"aman named Felice Solaro!"
"Felice Solaro!" he gasped, quickly starting back, his cheeks blanchingas he repeated the name. "If Felice Solaro is a friend of yours, MissMary, then he has probably told you the truth--the ghastly truth?" hecried hoarsely, as his face fell. "He has revealed to you the mysteryconcerning General Sazarac! Tell me--tell me what allegation has hemade against me?"
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
AT ORTON COURT AGAIN.
George Macbean stood at the window of the rector's little study atThornby, gazing out across the level lawn.
Outside, the typical old-fashioned English garden, bright in the Junesunlight, was a wealth of flowers, while the old house itself wasembowered in honeysuckle and roses. Beyond the tall box-hedge stood theancient church-tower, square and covered with ivy, round which the rookswere lazily circling against the blue and cloudless sky. Through theopen diamond-paned window came the fragrant perfume of the flowers, witha breath of that open English air that was to him refreshing after thedust and turmoil of the Eternal City.
"Getting tired of being a cosmopolitan--eh?" laughed the big,good-humoured man, turning to him. "I thought you would."
"No. I'm not altogether tired," he answered. "But a change isbeneficial to us all, you know. I suppose my wire surprised you?"
"Yes, and no. Of course I heard three weeks ago that the Morinis
werereturning to Orton for the wedding, and I naturally expected you to putin an appearance. What a lucky dog you are to have got such anappointment! And yet you grumble at your bread and cheese. Look at me!Two sermons, Sunday school, religious instruction, mothers' meeting,coal club--same thing each week, year in, year out--and can't afford todo the swagger and keep a curate! I never get a change, except now andthen a day with the hounds or a dinner from some charitably disposedperson. But what about the marriage? We all thought it was to be inItaly. He's French and she's Italian, so to be married in England theymust have had no end of formalities."
"Mary is a Protestant, remember--and a Cabinet Minister can doanything--so they are to be married in Orton church," he
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