suffering from an attack of that prostrating maladyRoman fever, and George, as his private secretary, was daily inattendance upon him.
Morini liked the young man for his honest English sturdiness ofcharacter, his diligent application to his duties, and his enthusiasmfor all that was beneficial to the army. He had quickly picked up hisduties, and already the Minister of War found his assistanceindispensable.
He worked a good deal in the big old library of the palace, wherein theMinister's daughter and wife often entered to salute him and sometimesto give him an invitation to remain to luncheon, when the conversationwould generally be upon English matters in general and things at Ortonand Thornby in particular. Both mother and daughter delighted in theirEnglish home, and always regretted leaving it for that fevered existencethey were compelled to lead continually in the Italian capital.
Mary was already engaged, otherwise neither Morini nor his wife wouldprobably have allowed the two young people to be thrown so constantlyinto each other's society. Thus, however, the bond of friendshipgradually became strengthened between them, he loving her fondly insecret, while she regarded him as a man in whom she might one dayconfide. She had no friend in whom she could trust, save her father.Amid her thousand acquaintances in that brilliant world around thethrone there was not one who would not betray her confidence at themoment any profit might be made out of it. Therefore she kept herselfto herself, and mixed with them only as etiquette or her father's policydemanded.
George Macbean was, on his part, filled with wonder. She was actuallyto marry Jules Dubard--that man of all men!
Surely her parents were in ignorance of who and what the fellow hadbeen; surely by his clever cunning and shrewd manoeuvring he had misledeven the sharp-eyed Minister himself, and induced him to give hisconsent to his daughter's marriage.
He pitied Mary--pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He knew thatthere must be some secret which she held and would not divulge; for ifnot, why should she regard her forthcoming marriage with such a lack ofenthusiasm--why, indeed, should she purposely abstain from discussingDubard? He closely watched her, and recognised how she had sadlychanged since those bright days at Orton. Upon her brow was now asettled expression of deep thought and sadness, and when she thoughtherself unobserved a low sigh would sometimes escape, her, as though herthoughts were bitter ones.
Was it possible that she suspected the truth concerning Jules Dubard?Was it even possible that she was marrying him under compulsion?
In the silence of his own apartment he sat for hours, smoking hisEnglish pipe and wondering, while the babel of sounds of the foreigncity came up from the street below. How strange were the ways of theworld, how bitter the ironies of life! He loved her--ah yes! He lovedher with all the passion of his soul, with all the deep and earnestdevotion of which an honest man is capable. Yet, poor as he was, merelyher father's underling, how could he ever hope to gain her hand? No, hesighed day after day, it was hopeless--utterly hopeless. Hers was to bea marriage of convenience--she was to wed Dubard, and become a countess.
But if he only dared to speak! He might save her--but at what cost?His own disgrace and ruin.
And he bit his lip to the blood.
Fortune had lifted him out of the drudgery of Morgan-Mason's service andbrought him there to Rome, to a position of confidence envied by tenthousand others. Could he possibly sacrifice his future, his very life,just as it had suddenly opened up to him?
And he pondered on, meeting her, talking with her, and each hour fallingdeeper under the spell of her marvellous grace and beauty.
Mary, on her part, was full of thought. A frightful gulf was openedbefore her; she could not fly from its brink; she was goaded onwardsthough she saw it yawning beneath her feet.
While sitting alone with her father in his room one evening sheapproached the subject of Felice Solaro; but he instantly poured forthsuch a flood of invectives upon the condemned man that she was compelledto at once change the subject. To her it seemed that for someunaccountable reason he was prejudiced against the imprisoned man, andanything she might say in his favour only served to condemn him themore.
On looking back upon the past, she found that she had regarded love as amatter of everyday occurrence. She heard of it, saw it wherever shemoved; every man who approached her either felt or feigned it; and soaccustomed was she to homage and devotion that its absence aloneattracted her attention. She had considered it part of her state--andyet of the real nature of true affection she had been perfectlyunconscious.
She had more than once imagined herself in love, as in the case ofFelice Solaro, mistaking gratified vanity for a deeper emotion--had feltpleasure in the presence of its object, and regret in absence; but thatwas a pastime and no more--until now.
But now! She held within her heart a deep secret--the secret of herlove.
And this rendered her future all the more serious--her marriage all themore a fearful undertaking. She had no escape from her fate; she mustmarry a man who at least was indifferent to her. Could she ever sufferherself to be decked for this unpromising bridal, this union with a manwho at heart was the enemy of her family and whom she hated?
One evening she again met George Macbean. He had returned from Naples,where he had executed a commission given him by the Minister, and hadreported to his chief his visit to the commandant of the militarydistrict. He afterwards sat with Mary and her mother in one of thesmaller reception-rooms of the ponderous old mansion. Mary, who was ina black dinner-dress slightly _decollete_, took up her mandoline--theinstrument of which he was so fond--and sang the old Tuscan song, inwhich, with his heart so overburdened, he discerned a hidden meaning--
"Io questa notte in sogno l'ho veduto, Era vestito tutto di broccato; Le piume sul berretto di velluto, Ed una spada d'oro aveva allato. E poi m'ha detto con un bel sorriso. Io non posso piu star da te diviso! Da te diviso non ci posso stare, E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!"
These words sank as iron into his soul. Did she, he wondered, reallyreciprocate his concealed and unexpressed feelings? Ah no, it wasimpossible--all impossible.
And when she had laid aside her instrument, he commenced to describe tothem the grand review of troops which he had witnessed outside Naplesthat morning, and how the general staff had treated him as an honouredguest.
"Ah!" sighed Madame Morini. "If we were to tell the truth, Mr Macbean,both Mary and I are tired of the very sight of uniforms and the sound ofmilitary music. Wherever my husband goes in Italy a review is alwaysincluded in the programme, and we have to endure the heat and the dustof the march past. Once, when I was first married, I delighted in allthe glitter and display of armed forces, but nowadays I long and everlong for retirement at dear old Orton."
"And so do I," declared her daughter quickly. "When I was at school inEngland I used to look forward to the day when I would be presented atthe Quirinale and enter Roman society. But oh, the weariness of it all!I have already become sick of its glare, its uncharitableness, and itsintrigues. England--yes--give me dear England, or else the quiet of SanDonato. You have never been there yet, Mr Macbean," she added, lookinginto his face. "When you do go, you will find it more quiet and morebeautiful than Orton."
"I have no doubt," he said. "If it is in the Arno valley, I know howbeautiful the country is there, having passed up and down from Pisa manytimes. Those are photographs of it in madame's boudoir--are they not?"
"Oh yes. Ah! then you've noticed them," she exclaimed. "It is adelightful old place, is it not?" His eyes were fixed upon hers, and heread in their dark depths the burden of sorrow that was there. Dubardwas due back in Rome, but he had not returned, nor had she mentioned thereason. He wished to meet him--to observe what effect his presencewould have upon that man who had robbed him of all the happiness oflife.
The chiming of the little French clock reminded him that it was the hourto take his leave, therefore he rose, grasped the hands of the grave,kind-faced Englishwoman and her daughter, an
d went forth into theold-world street, striding blindly on towards his own rooms.
"Really a delightful fellow," remarked her mother when the door hadclosed behind him. "His English manners are refreshing after those ofall the apeish young fools whom we are compelled for the sake of policyto entertain. But," she added, with a laugh, suddenly recollecting, "Iought not to say that, my dear, now that you are to marry a Frenchman.I married an Italian, and as far as my choice of a husband has gone, Iam thankful to say I have never regretted it--even though our naturesand our religions are different."
"I will never become a Catholic--never!" declared Mary decisively. "Ido not, and I shall never, believe in the confessional."
"Nor do I," responded her mother. "But there is no need for you tochange your religion. The count has already told me that he has no suchdesire. By the way, he was due