Part 40 (1/2)
”And Rome will lose you!” he exclaimed in regret. ”At the Countess Bardi's last night they were discussing it, and everyone expressed sorrow that you should leave them.”
She sighed deeply, and in her eyes he thought he detected the light of tears.
”For many things I shall really not be sorry to leave Rome,” she answered blankly. ”Only I wish I were going to live in dear old England. I have no love for Paris, and the artificiality of the Riviera I detest. It is the plague-spot of Europe. What people can really see in it beyond the attraction of gambling I never can understand. The very atmosphere is hateful to anyone with a spark of self-respect.”
They were leaning on the old grey stonework, their faces turned to the darkening valley where wound the Tiber, the centre of the civilisation of all the ages, the great misty void wherein the lights were already beginning to twinkle.
Furtively he glanced at her countenance, and saw upon her white brow a look of deep, resigned despair. He loved her--this beautiful woman who was to sacrifice herself to the man who he knew had entrapped her, and yet whom he dare not denounce for fear of incriminating himself. He, who wors.h.i.+pped her--who loved her in truth and in silence as no man had ever 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, he clenched his hands in sheer despair and cried to himself in agony.
Dubard was to be her husband--Jules Dubard, the man who, knowing of his presence in Rome, feared to return to claim her as his wife!
”You are very silent, Miss Mary!” he managed to say at last, watching her pale, beautiful face set away towards the dark valley.
”I was thinking,” she answered, turning slowly, facing him, and looking straight into his eyes.
”Of what?”
”Shall I tell you frankly?”
”Certainly,” he said, smiling. ”You are always frank with me, are you not?”
”Well, I was thinking of a man who was once my friend--a man whom I believe you have cause to remember,” she replied in a meaning tone--”a man named Felice Solaro!”
”Felice Solaro!” he gasped, quickly starting back, his cheeks blanching as he repeated the name. ”If Felice Solaro is a friend of yours, Miss Mary, then he has probably told you the truth--the ghastly truth?” he cried hoa.r.s.ely, as his face fell. ”He has revealed to you the mystery concerning General Sazarac! Tell me--tell me what allegation has he made against me?”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
AT ORTON COURT AGAIN.
George Macbean stood at the window of the rector's little study at Thornby, gazing out across the level lawn.
Outside, the typical old-fas.h.i.+oned English garden, bright in the June sunlight, was a wealth of flowers, while the old house itself was embowered in honeysuckle and roses. Beyond the tall box-hedge stood the ancient church-tower, square and covered with ivy, round which the rooks were lazily circling against the blue and cloudless sky. Through the open diamond-paned window came the fragrant perfume of the flowers, with a breath of that open English air that was to him refres.h.i.+ng after the dust 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 is beneficial to us all, you know. I suppose my wire surprised you?”
”Yes, and no. Of course I heard three weeks ago that the Morinis were returning to Orton for the wedding, and I naturally expected you to put in an appearance. What a lucky dog you are to have got such an appointment! 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 to do the swagger and keep a curate! I never get a change, except now and then a day with the hounds or a dinner from some charitably disposed person. But what about the marriage? We all thought it was to be in Italy. He's French and she's Italian, so to be married in England they must have had no end of formalities.”
”Mary is a Protestant, remember--and a Cabinet Minister can do anything--so they are to be married in Orton church,” he added in a strange tone, his eyes turned towards the sunlit lawn, over which old Hayes, the groom-gardener, was running the machine.
”I ought to have called to congratulate her, but as you know I only returned last night from doing duty over at Eye. I ought to drive over after tea. Is the count there?”
”No. When we left Rome I came straight to London on some urgent private business of His Excellency's, and they remained a week in Paris, where Dubard was--to complete the trousseau, I suppose.”
”It is one of Mary's whims to be married by special licence by the Canon at Orton, I've heard. Is that so?” asked Sinclair.
The young man nodded. He had no desire to discuss the tragedy, for he knew well that the marriage was a loveless one, and although his own affection had been unspoken, he was beside himself with grief and despair. He, who knew the truth, yet dare not utter one single word to save her!