Chapter Eighteen. Counting the Cost.

Next day at noon Mary, who was out driving in the smart English victoria, called at the Ministry and again sat alone with her father trying to persuade him to order an inquiry into the case of the unfortunate Felice Solaro.

“It is useless, my dear,” was his impatient answer. “He has already been here himself, but the case is proved up to the very hilt. I therefore cannot interfere.”

“Proved by that woman Nodari?” she cried, with fierce indignation. Then, after a pause, she leaned towards him and said in a low, earnest voice, “You will not allow an inquiry because you fear its result, father?”

“Hush! Who told you that?” he gasped, staring at her.

“No one. It is only a logical conclusion. The captain is the victim of a wicked conspiracy, and he is suffering in silence because he knows the utter futility of appeal.”

“He has already appealed to me.”

“And you have refused him justice!” was his daughter’s quick reproachful declaration. “You are surely not unjust, father? You cannot be.”

The tall, distinguished-looking man was silent, and rising, walked up the long strip of carpet placed upon the marble floor. Then slowly he returned to her, and looking straight into her face, said—

“My hands are tied, my girl. I am powerless, I confess to you.”

“But in your heart you believe that he is innocent? Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” he whispered in a broken voice. “I do—I do.”

She made no response. His admission was full of a poignant meaning. She saw that he was somehow fettered, held in some mysterious bondage of which she was in ignorance.

Again she spoke of the examination of the safe by Dubard, but this matter he seemed disinclined to discuss, and pleading other affairs, he urged her to return home and await him at luncheon.

At three o’clock, after eating his midday meal with her, he went forth again to make a round of official calls, when, a quarter of an hour later, the Italian footman threw open the long white doors of the small salon where Mary was sitting writing letters, and announced—

“Comte Dubard!”

She started quickly, held her breath, and rose to greet her visitor, who, foppishly dressed in a pale grey flannel suit, came forward smiling, and, drawing his heels together, bowed low over her white hand. The man’s calm impertinence and cool unscrupulousness held her speechless.

“I thought you were still at San Donato,” she stammered, when at last she found tongue. “I had no idea you were here, in Rome.”

“I have followed you,” he declared, smiling. “You left the villa unknown to me, and therefore I have come to you.”

“For what reason?” she inquired, her brows slightly elevated.

“Because—well, because I fear that the reason of your sudden journey is to reveal to your father those things which I told you in confidence the other day. Remember the future rests entirely in your own hands. He must know nothing—at least at present.”

“And is that the only reason you are here, count?” she asked meaningly, standing before him with her hands behind her back, her splendid dark eyes fixed upon him.

“I come here as your friend to warn you that silence is best at this moment. A word to your father will precipitate the crisis. I know,” he went on, “that you are convinced that an injustice has been done in the case of poor Solaro. Your attitude the other evening showed me that. But I beg of you to make no effort to clear his character, because, in the first place, any such attempt must of necessity fail; and secondly, your father’s enemies would at once shriek of the insecurity of the French frontier. No,” he argued, speaking in a low tone in French, “you must keep your own counsel, mademoiselle. If this catastrophe is to be averted, if the Cabinet is to be saved, then it must be by some ingenious means that are not apparent to your father’s enemies.”

She stood listening to this declaration of friendship by the man who had pried into her father’s secrets. It was on the tip of her tongue to openly charge him with ulterior motives, nevertheless her better judgment prevailed. She recognised, as her father had pointed out, that no good end could be served by showing her hand at that juncture, therefore she allowed him to argue without raising her voice in protest. He had followed her from Tuscany because he was apprehensive lest she should tell her father the truth. Why? He was in fear of something; of what, she could not tell.

A great conspiracy, ingenious and widespread, was afoot to encompass her father’s ruin, therefore she resolved to remain at his side and at any cost face the perils of exposure. The few hours she had spent in her father’s society had shown that, so full was he of his responsible official duties and affairs concerning the army of Italy, he had, in a few weeks, become an entirely changed man. His face was now pale and drawn, and when he sat alone with her there rested upon his countenance a haunted look—the look of a man who was face to face with ruin. Loving her father, she had been quick to recognise the truth. At first it had staggered her, but her surprise and horror had given place to a deep filial sympathy, and while determined to hide her secret from her mother, she had become at the same time her father’s confidante and friend.

“I am quite well aware of the intentions of the Opposition,” she answered coldly, after a painful pause. “But I am not in the least apprehensive. My father has for so many years been a faithful servant of his sovereign that the Italian people still have confidence in him. Neither the country nor the Camera can fail to recognise the many reforms he has introduced into the army, or how he has alleviated the lot of the common conscript.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. “I am glad that you recognise your father’s strong position—the strongest of any man in the Italian Government. Nevertheless,” he added, “those shrieking firebrands can, if they so desire, set Italy aflame. We have that truth to face, and we must face it.”

Her lips were pressed together, for she saw how cleverly he was changing his tactics towards her. She also recognised how, by appearing to have confidence in the future, she could place him off his guard. Her father’s honour was, she felt, in her hands, and the magnitude of the issue aroused within her all her woman’s innate tact and courage.

“I came to Rome because my father telegraphed to me,” she said quite simply. “He wanted to take me with him to Palermo to visit my aunt, but the king’s programme is changed, so we are not going after all. I intend to return to San Donato the day after to-morrow. It is still too hot in Rome.”

“Ah! then I own myself quite mistaken,” he laughed. “I have been unduly anxious, for I attributed your sudden departure to your natural desire to tell His Excellency all that I had explained in confidence. We men, you know, are in the habit of saying that women cannot keep secrets.”

“I can keep one,” she declared.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know you can. Upon your secrecy in this affair the very fate of the Ministry depends, believe me. You know that I am your father’s true friend—as well as yours.”

She held her breath, and her eyes met his.

“You have told me that several times before,” she remarked in a quiet, mechanical voice and with an assumed air of unconcern.

“And I mean it,” he said earnestly. “Only you had better not tell your father that I am here. It is, perhaps, unwise to let him know that I have followed you from San Donato—he may suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

“Well, suspect the reason of my visit to you to-day,” he said, surprised at her quick question. “You see I have come here because—well, to tell you the truth,” he faltered, “I am here to tell you something which I wanted to say at San Donato—yet I dared not.”

“What—is it bad news?” she asked, looking at him with some apprehension.

A long silence fell between them. He was watching her, hesitating whether he should speak. At length, however, he suddenly took her hand and said—

“As I have told you, I am your father’s friend. You may doubt me; probably you do. But one day I shall prove to you that I am acting solely from motives of friendship—that I am endeavouring to shield your father from the impending blow.”

“If you are, why do you not go to my father and tell him everything?” she asked, inwardly filled with doubt and mistrust.

“Because, as I have told you, it is impolitic to do so at this moment. We must wait.”

“And while we wait his enemies may take advantage.”

“No, not yet. Their plans are not yet complete,” he answered. “I was at the Camera last evening, and discovered the exact situation. If we are patient and watchful we may yet turn the weapon of our enemies against themselves.”

He saw that she was grave and thoughtful, that his advice caused her to reflect; while she, on her part, did not divulge what she had already told His Excellency.

They stood together at the window, where the long green sun-shutters were closed to keep out the blazing heat of afternoon, and as he looked upon her handsome profile in that dim half-light he saw that her face and figure in her cool white dress was the most perfect that he had ever gazed upon even in the haut monde of Paris. In the air was the stifling oppression of the storm-cloud: “You are sad,” he said presently in a calm, low voice as he leaned against the broad marble sill of the window, where a welcome breath of air reached them from the silent sun-baked street below.

Her dark eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, and her hands were clasped in pensive attitude; for his manner had mystified her, knowing all that he had done in the silence of the night at San Donato.

“I fear the future,” she declared frankly, starting at his words and turning her gaze upon him.

“But what have you to fear?” he asked, bending slowly towards her with an intense look in his eyes. “I am your friend equally with your father’s, as I have already declared, and fortunately I know the intentions and the dastardly intrigues of those who are plotting his ruin.”

“Then you can save him by exposing their plot?” she cried, utterly amazed at his words. “You will—will you not?” she implored breathlessly.

“I can save him—yes, I can, within twelve hours, cause the very men who now seek the downfall of the Ministry to fly in fear from Rome,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “I know the truth.”

“And you will tell it?” she urged breathlessly, advancing towards him. “My father’s future, my own future, the honour of our house all depend upon you.” He had examined her father’s private papers, and undoubtedly knew the truth on both sides. He had acted with the enemy, and yet he declared himself to be her friend? “You will save my father?” she implored.

With a sudden movement he took her hand in his and whispered in a quick, earnest voice into her ear—

“Yes, I will save him—on one condition. Of late, Mary, I have noticed that you have avoided me—that—that you somehow appear to shun me in suspicion and mistrust. You doubt my good intentions towards you and your family. But I will give proof of them if you will only allow me.”

She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and trembled.

“Save my father from the hands of these unscrupulous office-seekers,” she panted. “His honour—his very life is to-day at stake.”

“Upon two conditions, Mary,” was his low, quiet answer, still holding her hand firmly in his. “That he gives his consent to our marriage, and that you are willing to become my wife.”

“Your wife!” she gasped, drawing her hand away, starting back, and looking blankly at him with her magnificent eyes. “Your wife!”

“Yes. I love you, Mary,” he cried passionately, taking her hand again, “I love you. You must have seen how for months past I have lived for you alone, yet I dared not, until to-day, reveal the truth. Say one word—only say that you will be mine—and your father shall crush those who intend to wreck and ruin him.”

“You—then you make marriage the price of my father’s triumph?” she faltered hoarsely, as the ghastly truth gradually dawned upon her.

“Yes,” he cried, raising her inert hand to his hot lips. “Because I love you, Mary!—because I cannot live without you! Be mine. Speak the word, and I will reveal the truth and save your father from ruin.”

But, realising the cleverly laid trap into which she had fallen, she stood silent and rigid, her eyes fixed upon him in an agony of blank, unutterable despair.