Part 44 (1/2)
Then Solaro unlocked the door, and turning to the Sicilian and Dubard, who were standing together pale, crestfallen, and ashamed, he said--
”Go, you pair of a.s.sa.s.sins. Don't either of you put foot in Italy again, or I'll take it upon myself to prosecute you for your vile plot and my own false imprisonment. Then, at your trial, the whole affair will come out. You hear?”
”Yes!” muttered Dubard, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”We hear your threats.”
And in silence both the elegant bridegroom and his dark-faced friend pa.s.sed from the study and out of the house, never to re-enter it.
Then, when they had gone, Mary, a pale, tragic figure in her bridal dress, flung herself into George's ready arms, crying--
”You have saved me--saved me!” and she burst into tears of joy, the outpourings of an overburdened heart.
For the first time Camillo Morini guessed the truth, yet then and there, before Felice Solaro, whose statement had liberated both of them, George Macbean openly confessed his great pa.s.sion for her, a declaration of purest and strongest affection, of which she, by her own action, had already acknowledged reciprocation.
And so the Minister, on recovering from his surprise, gladly gave the hand of his daughter to the gallant, upright man who had placed himself in such jeopardy in order to save her and to unmask the conspirators, while Felice Solaro was the first to offer the pair his hearty congratulations. Hand in hand they stood, content in each other's love.
In order to preserve appearances, it was arranged that Mary should feign a sudden illness to necessitate the postponement of the wedding, and while there was great disappointment among the guests and the curious crowds of villagers, there was, in secret, a great rejoicing in Madame Morini's little boudoir when the glad news was revealed to her.
The pealing bells were stopped. Mary had thrown off her wedding-gown merrily, and when she tossed her orange-blossoms into the grate of the boudoir, she said to George laughingly--
”When we marry privately in London next month, I shall require no white satin--a travelling gown will be sufficient, will it not?”
”Yes, dearest,” he said, kissing her fondly upon the lips, now that she was really his very own. ”The dress does not matter when the union of our hearts is so firm and true. You know how fondly and pa.s.sionately I love you, and how I have suffered in silence at the thought of your terrible sacrifice.”
”I know,” she answered softly, looking up into his eyes trustingly. ”I know, George--only too well! Ah! you cannot think how happy I am, now that it is all past--and you are mine?” And then she raised her sweet face and kissed him of her own accord upon the cheek.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE.