Behind the Throne

Chapter Five

Is Mainly about a Woman

George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.

When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his uncle his intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had to give a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and would therefore not be able to accompany him.

So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose him and thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted and rode away down the white, dusty highroad.

Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, and rode over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, to Orton.

Eleven o’clock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling, but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long, well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed the study window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit of light grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellency himself.

In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared, whereupon he asked —

“Is Count Dubard at home?”

“The count left this morning by the nine o’clock train.”

“Left!” echoed Macbean. “And is he not returning?”

“I think not, sir. He took his luggage. But I will inquire if you’ll step in a moment.”

The man had conducted him across the wide old-fashioned stone hall into a pleasant morning-room which looked out upon the flower-garden and was flooded with sunshine, and after the lapse of a few moments the door reopened and there entered Mary herself, a charming figure in a fresh white blouse and linen skirt.

“Why, Mr Macbean!” she cried, extending her hand gaily. “You are quite an unexpected visitor! Davis says you want to see Count Dubard. He left for Paris this morning.”

“And is he not coming back?”

“No, I believe not,” was her answer. “He received a letter this morning calling him to Paris at once, and dashed off to try and catch the eleven o’clock service from Charing Cross. He just had time, he said. He was anxious to see you, I think.”

“Anxious to see me – why?” asked Macbean quickly.

“Last night he told me that he recognised you as you were driving home with Mr Sinclair, and asked if I knew you. I, of course, told him that you had been playing tennis here. He seemed very eager to see you, and made quite a lot of inquiries about you.”

Her companion was silent. The recognition had been mutual, then, and the story of the urgent letter was only an excuse of the Frenchman’s to escape from a very ugly and compromising position! His flight showed Macbean that the fellow was in fear of him, and yet he had fortunately avoided a scene between them, and a result which, in all probability, might have caused his own ruin.

He looked at the bright, sweet-faced woman before him, and wondered – wondered how she could allow her affection to be attracted towards such a fellow. And yet what an admirable actor the man was! She was, alas! in ignorance of it all.

How could he tell her? To explain, would only be to condemn himself. No. He resolved that for the present he must conceal his secret – for his own sake. Nevertheless how strange it was, he thought, that he should thus suddenly be drawn so closely towards her. Yesterday she was a mere acquaintance of the tea-table and the tennis-lawn, like dozens of other girls he knew, while to-day he was there as her friend and protector, the man who intended to save her and her family from the ingenious trap that he now saw was already prepared.

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” he remarked in a tone of regret, adding, “I knew him long ago, and only after we had passed, my uncle told me that he was a guest here.”

“He too said he wanted very much to see you,” she remarked brightly. “But you’ll meet again very soon, no doubt. I shall tell him of your inquiries when I write, for he spoke of you in the warmest terms. I did not know your address in London, so I gave him Mr Sinclair’s. I’m so sorry he’s gone,” she added. “We were to have all gone for a picnic to-day over to Kenilworth.”

“And instead of that the central attraction has disappeared,” he hazarded, with a smile.

“What do you mean by ‘central attraction’?” she asked, flushing slightly.

“My friend Dubard, of course. I suppose what everyone says is correct, Miss Morini, and therefore I may be permitted to congratulate you upon your engagement to my friend?”

“Oh, there is no engagement, I assure you,” was her reply, as she looked at him with open frankness, her cheeks betraying a slightly heightened colour. “I know there’s quite a lot of gossip about it, but the rumours are entirely without foundation,” she laughed; and as she sat there in the deep old window-seat, he recognised that, notwithstanding the refined and dignified beauty of a woman who was brilliant in a brilliant court, she still retained a soft simplicity and a virgin innocence; she was a woman whose first tears would spring from compassion, “suffering with those that she saw suffer.” She had no acquired scruples of honour, no coy concealments, no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness as they spoke together was less a quality than an instinct; like the self-folding flower, spontaneous and unconscious. Cosmopolitan life in that glare and glitter of aristocratic Rome – that circle where, from the innate distrust women have of each other, the dread of the betrayed confidence and jealous rivalry, they made no friends, and were indeed ignorant of the true meaning of friendship, where flattery and hypocrisy were the very air and atmosphere and mistrust lay in every hand-clasp and lurked in every glance – had already opened Mary Morini’s eyes to the hollow shams, the manifold hypocrisies, and the lamentable insincerity of social intimacies, and she had recoiled from it with disgust.

She had retained her woman’s heart, for that was unalterable and inalienable as a part of her being; but her looks, her language, her thoughts, assumed to George Macbean, as he stood there beneath the spell of her beauty, the cast of the pure ideal.

And yet she loved Jules Dubard!

He bit his lip and gazed out of the old diamond panes upon the tangle of red and white roses around the lawn.

Ah! how he longed to speak to her in confidence – to reveal to her the secret that now oppressed his heart until he seemed stifled by its ghastliness.

But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchman’s crushing revenge.

He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying —

“Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.”

“Yes,” she declared. “They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard – ridiculous!”

“Why ridiculous?” he asked, standing before her.

“Well – because it is!” she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. “I’m not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.”

“I shall certainly do so,” he declared, “and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.”

She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously – the man who was her father’s friend – and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.

His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed —

“This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.”

“Very glad to meet you, sir,” exclaimed Camillo Morini, rising, grasping the young man’s hand, and raising his grey felt hat. “You know,” he explained, as he reseated himself, “I am a busy man, and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wife’s English friends. But,” he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, “if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.”

“Yes, your Excellency,” laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morini’s true position. “I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. “I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm,” he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. “And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.”

Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.

All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morini’s creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read men’s minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.

“Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his,” his daughter explained.

“Oh, you are acquainted! How curious!” exclaimed His Excellency. “Dubard unfortunately left this morning – because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull,” he laughed knowingly. “I’ve received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when I’ve been tired of a host and hostess.”

And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubard’s flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.

“Of course,” added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, “you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits – you understand?”

“Certainly, your Excellency, I shall respect your wishes,” was Macbean’s reply, and a few minutes later he took leave of the great statesman and his daughter, and, full of strange conflicting reflections, rode out upon the broad highway back to Thornby.

Chapter Six

Discloses Certain Strange Facts

As Big Ben boomed forth twelve o’clock over London that same night the supper-room at the Savoy was filled to overflowing with a boisterous, well-dressed crowd of after-theatre revellers. The scene was brighter and gayer perhaps than any other scene at that hour in all the giant city. The “smart set,” that slangy, vulgar result of society’s degeneration, was as largely represented as usual; the women were fair, the jewels sparkled, the dresses were rich, and in the atmosphere was that restlessness, that perpetual craze for excitement which proves so attractive to habitués of the place.

Every table in the great room was engaged, and the company was essentially le monde ou l’on s’amuse. But you probably have sat there amid the hurrying of the waiters, the hum of voices, the loud laughter of “smart women,” the clinking of champagne-glasses, that babel of noise drowned by the waltzes played by the Hungarian band. The air was heavy with the combined odour of a hundred perfumes, the fresh flowers drooped upon the tables, and the merry company crowded into that last half-hour all the merriment they could before the lights were lowered.

At such places one sees exhibited in public the full, true, and sole omnipotence of money – how it wins the impoverished great ones to be guests of its possessor, how it purchases the smiles of the haughtiest, the favours of the most exclusive.

Lazily watching that animated scene, the two men who had been guests at Orton, Dubard and Borselli, were sitting apart at a small table near the window. A bottle of Krug stood between them, and as they leaned their elbows on the table they criticised their fellow-guests, speaking in Italian, so that their remarks should not be understood by their neighbours.

The band had just concluded Desgranges’ “Jalouse,” that air so reminiscent of the terrace of the Café de Paris at Monte Carlo, the leader had bowed to the company, and the waiters were busy collecting the banknotes with which the bills were in most cases paid, when the Italian drained his glass, saying —

“Let us go! I’ve had enough of this! Come on to Claridge’s with me for a final cigar.”

“A moment?” exclaimed Dubard, his eyes fixed across the room. “Do you see over there, just behind the column, two ladies with a stout man with grey side-whiskers? One of the ladies is in blue. What a terrible vulgarian the fellow is! I’ve been watching him.”

The general glanced in the direction indicated and replied —

“Oh yes, I noticed him as we came in. You’re right, my dear Jules, that fellow is a vulgarian. I met him once in Rome. His name is Morgan-Mason, a deputy and very wealthy.”

“Morgan-Mason!” echoed the Frenchman, looking hard at him. “Ah!” he added, “I’ve heard of him, of course. Yes. Let us go,” and they both rose, descended by the lift, and drove in a hansom to Claridge’s.

In the Under-Secretary’s elegant little sitting-room – the room wherein that afternoon he had accepted the German contractor’s bribe on Morini’s behalf – he drew forth a box of choice cigars, and they both commenced to smoke.

A brief and rather painful silence fell between them. Both men had that evening exhibited towards each other a strained politeness, each knowing that the other hated him. Dubard’s defiance on the previous night had upset all the calculations of that past-master of intrigue, Angelo Borselli, whose dark eyes now darted a swift glance at his companion lolling back in the big arm-chair apparently perfectly at his ease.

To Borselli’s surprise, and believing that his departure had been due to his threat on the previous night, Dubard had left Rugby for London an hour before he had, but at four o’clock that afternoon he had sent an invitation to the Carlton, suggesting that they should spend the evening together at a theatre, which they had done.

There was a mystery in the Frenchman’s sudden departure from Orton, and in it Borselli suspected an ingenious move. Throughout the whole day he had reasoned within himself, finally coming to the conclusion that it was better to be friendly with such a man as Jules Dubard than to be his enemy.

Dubard had seen during the evening that his companion wished to speak with him but was hesitating. At last, however, after they had smoked in silence for some minutes, the crafty Sicilian stroked his moustache and exclaimed —

“I fear, my dear Jules, that I was rather hasty, perhaps rude, last night. Yet, after all, I am very glad that you took my hint and left Orton.”

The Frenchman opened his eyes widely at the man’s calm audacity.

“I did not take your hint in the least, I assure you,” he exclaimed, with quick indignation. “I left Orton for quite another reason.”

The sallow-faced man smiled, as though quite unconscious of his companion’s anger.

“Yes,” he said. “I know. You cannot deceive me.”

“You know?” cried the Frenchman, starting to his feet. “What do you know? Have you invited me up here to threaten me again?”

“I merely say that I know the reason why you received the letter calling you to Paris this morning,” replied the Under-Secretary in a cold, calm voice. “It was because you met and were recognised by a certain Englishman named Macbean, the secretary of that vulgar fellow we saw eating his supper half an hour ago.”

Dubard’s jaw fell. He saw that by some utterly unaccountable means his enemy was aware of the real reason which compelled him to fly from Leicestershire.

Was it possible that he could know the whole truth? No; it was impossible. Macbean dare not speak. Of that he felt quite assured.

“Ah?” continued the general, a grim smile crossing his thin, hard features as he narrowly watched his companion. “You see I am not quite as ignorant of the past as you believe, my dear Jules.”

“Nor am I!” cried the Frenchman, turning upon him savagely. “Last night you threatened me, remember!”

“And to-night I have invited you here, my dear friend, to arrive at some amicable agreement that will be to our mutual advantage,” answered the clever Under-Secretary, with a suavity of manner which showed him to be a born diplomat.

“Yes, I know,” answered the other in a dry, hard voice. “This is not the first time you and I have discussed matters, General Borselli. I know that if it suited you you’d betray your own mother. You have no conscience, no code of honour?”

“My code of honour is exactly the same as yours, caro mio,” replied the Italian, laughing. “I try to turn all I can into profit for myself, just as you are trying to do. My maxim is ‘self first.’”

“And for that reason you are plotting the downfall of Morini and the whole Ministry!”

“A work in which you are actively assisting,” added the Under-Secretary.

“I did not come here to be insulted,” Dubard protested.

“Neither did I invite you here to pose as a censor of political morality,” responded his shrewd companion, looking straight and determinedly into his pale face. “But why should we quarrel, when it is to our mutual interests to remain friendly?”

“I have not quarrelled. Last night you objected to me visiting the Morinis.”

“Because I am well aware of your object.”

“I admit that I intend to marry Mary,” and he removed his cigar from his mouth and examined it.

“And you have also a further object in view, my dear count – one that is even more interesting,” declared Borselli, “a plan that I can very easily frustrate.”

“Well, you told me that last night,” he said. “And I, on my part, frankly declare that I do not in the least fear any revelations you can make.”

“Not of the affair of General Sazarac?” whispered the cunning Italian, his dark eyes fixed upon the younger man as he bent towards him. “Have you so completely forgotten certain events which, if recalled, would mean – well, they would mean that you would neither marry Morini’s daughter nor be successful in the next very ingenious trick by which you intend to make a grand coup at the expense of my country.”

At the mention of the name of General Sazarac the other’s face blanched, and holding his breath he stood glaring at the man who with raised eyebrows smiled so calmly at him. He saw that this political adventurer was aware of a certain deep, terrible secret of the past which he believed was buried for ever. His enemy’s attitude of cool confidence was sufficient to bring him at once to a sense of his insecurity.

“Well?” he managed to gasp. “And what is your proposal?”

“Ah, my dear friend, I am glad you are ready to listen to reason,” responded the Sicilian. “We must both face the future unshrinkingly, you know. You have your own schemes; I have mine. By acting in accord we shall succeed, but if we are enemies then we shall commit the very foolish and unpardonable error of exposing each other. I know quite well that there are certain rather unfortunate incidents regarding my own career, those disagreeable little matters of which you have knowledge, and by which you could retaliate. You see, I do not for a single moment intend to deny them. On the contrary, I frankly suggest that by an agreement of silence we can be helpful in each other’s interests. We both desire advancement, and can gain it through the medium of Morini. Are you not agreed?”

Dubard, slowly convinced that without the general’s aid he must be powerless and in peril, nodded in the affirmative. He did not discern the wily man’s ulterior motive, or the secret reason of the proposed compact.

“Your primary object, my dear Jules, is of course money,” the general went on. “Now, by a simple written declaration I shall absolve you from all connection with the Sazarac affair, while you, on your part, will deny my connection with that ugly little matter in Rome two years ago. Both of us will then emerge again honest and upright – models of virtue. Bygones will be bygones. I shall go my way, you will go yours; I to assist you, and you to help me – a perfectly reciprocal arrangement. I shall become Minister, while you – well, you will by a single coup become a rich man, and at the same time gain a very charming wife.”

“And Morini?”

The Under-Secretary elevated his shoulders and exhibited his palms.

“And the Englishman Macbean?”

“He is a mere fly in amber,” declared the Sicilian, with a sinister smile. “Fortune lies before us in Italy, my dear Jules – for you wealth and a wife; for me, office and distinction. By acting in accord we have nothing whatever to fear. Morini dare not disobey us, and Macbean, being a poor man, will easily fall into our power. Leave him entirely to me. I have a scheme by which he will shortly discover that his whole future depends upon his silence, and that a single indiscreet word will mean his ruin.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then there is still that effective method which was adopted towards Sazarac – you understand?”

The Frenchman nodded, darting a swift glance at the thin-featured man before him.

He understood too well.

Chapter Seven

An Afternoon at Thornby

The Thornby Flower-Show was held a week later in the rectory grounds, the work of arrangement chiefly devolving upon the bluff, good-natured rector and his nephew George.

The little rural fête, encouraged by the richer residents, was, like other village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers to exhibit their “twelve best varieties of vegetables,” their “six best pot-plants,” the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticultural possessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, well managed, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses in the neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the open classes.

The judges – three gardeners from a distance – had inspected the exhibits in the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with the committee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or three cottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, been entertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o’clock the village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up their music-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, the villagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent, anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured card indicative of a prize.