Thornby, George Macbean sat thatsame evening smoking his pipe, perplexed and puzzled.
In the zone of light shed by the green-shaded reading-lamp the rector, astout, good-humoured, round-faced man of forty, sat writing a letter,while his nephew, lounging back in the old leather arm-chair before thefireplace, drew heavy whiffs at his pipe, with his eyes fixed straightupon the well-filled bookcase before him.
That day he had become a changed man.
From the first moment he had bowed to Mary Morini, when his uncle hadintroduced him at Orton, he had been struck by her marvellous grace andbeauty, and this admiration had daily increased until now he wascompelled to acknowledge within himself that he was deeply in love withher.
He smiled bitterly as the truth made itself manifest. He had been overhead and ears in love with half a dozen women in his time, but he hadalways in a few weeks discovered their defects, their ambitions, andtheir lack of womanliness, without which a woman is no woman. Hesupposed it would be the same again, for he was not a man who wore hisheart upon his sleeve.
And yet he had discovered that a mystery surrounded her--a mystery thatattracted him.
The dead quiet of the night was unbroken save for the scratching of therector's pen, for the village of Thornby, like all agriculturalvillages, goes to bed early and rises with the dawn. The solemn bell inthe old church-tower struck ten as Mr Sinclair scribbled thesuperscription, blotted it, and rose from the table to fill his ownpipe.
"Why, George, my boy, you're glum to-night. What's the matter?"
"I really didn't know I was," laughed his nephew. "I was only thinking.And I didn't want to disturb you."
"Nothing disturbs me--except babies in church," declared the big fellow,laughing deeply. He was a good type of the easy-going bachelor parsonin the enjoyment of a comfortable living and popularity in localsociety. He was fond of golf and cricket, was a good judge of a horse,a good shot, and frequently rode to hounds.
He filled his well-coloured briar carefully, lit it, and then castinghimself into the chair opposite his nephew, said with a laugh--
"I noticed you were very chummy with Mary Morini. Well, what do youthink of her?"
"Very charming," responded the young man, rather annoyed at his uncle'schaff.
"All the men about here rave over her beauty--and they have cause to, nodoubt. She's a very entertaining companion and possesses a keen senseof humour--one of those girls who attract a man without being aware ofit. That's the chief essential in a woman's grace."
"But who are these Morinis?" inquired Macbean, removing his pipe fromhis mouth. "Nobody seems to know exactly who or what they are."
"You're quite right," responded his uncle, in a rather changed tone."Quite between ourselves, I've heard that question asked a good manytimes. Morini himself seems a bit of a recluse, for he seldom goesanywhere. Indeed, I haven't spoken to him more than half a dozen timesin my life. But Madame Morini and her daughter are taken up by thelocal people because of their apparent affluence and because they rentOrton from Lady Straker."
"What kind of man is this Morini?" asked Macbean, in an idle tone.
"Oh, rather gentlemanly, with a lot of elegant pose. Speaks Englishvery well for a foreigner, and smokes a very excellent brand of cigar.But, if the truth were told, he's looked upon here with a good deal ofsuspicion. Ill-natured people say that he's a foreign adventurer whocomes here in hiding from the police," he added, laughing.
The young man blew a long cloud of smoke from his lips, and remainedsilent. He was trying to recall a face he had seen--the face of a man,evidently a foreigner, who had passed them in a dogcart as they were onthe road home from Orton. The man's features had puzzled him eversince. They were familiar, yet he could not recollect in whatcircumstances they had met before.
In his position as secretary to the Member for South-West Norfolk he metmany men, yet somehow he held a distinct idea that in the misty pastthis man had created upon him some impression of evil.
"You recollect," he exclaimed at last, "that just before we came to thecross-roads to Calthorpe we passed a dogcart coming out from Rugby, witha groom in dark green livery."
"Yes. It was Morini's cart. The man in it is a guest at Orton," wasthe rector's reply. "More than that," he added, "he's said to beengaged--or about to be engaged--to the girl you admire so much."
"Oh, that's interesting!" remarked Macbean. "Do you know the man'sname?"
"He's a young French count named Dubard. I've met him here severaltimes; he seems quite a decent fellow for a Frenchman."
"Dubard? Dubard?" repeated the young man aloud, starting forward asthough a sudden revelation had flashed upon him. "Surely he can't beJules Dubard, the--"
"The what?" asked the rector quickly.
His nephew hesitated, recognising how he had narrowly betrayed thesecret of that recognition. Then he added quite coolly--
"The Frenchman."
Basil Sinclair, disappointed at this clever evasion, looked his nephewstraight in the face, and from the pallor of his cheeks saw thatwhatever recollections had been conjured up by mention of that name theywere evidently the reverse of pleasing.
"His name is certainly Jules, and he is a Frenchman," he said gravely."But you know something about him. I see it in your face."
The young man smiled, and lolling back again in the big easy-chair,answered with admirable coolness, considering the bewildering truth thathad at that moment flashed upon him--
"I am only surprised that Miss Morini should become engaged to aFrenchman. She told me to-day that her greatest regret is that theycannot live in England always."
"Ah, my boy, she's a thorough-going cosmopolitan," replied the rector,his pipe still between his teeth. "Such women always marry foreigners.I daresay her father would object if she wanted to marry an Englishman.He's a man who evidently means his daughter to marry a title."
"In Italy it is rather a claim to distinction not to possess a title,"laughed his nephew, recollecting how many penniless counts and marquiseshe had come across during those happy years when he lived with his UnclePietro in the white, half-deserted old city of Pisa.
"Morini is Italian to the backbone, with all the Italian's admirationfor England and yet with all the Italian's prejudices. You'll say sowhen you know him."
"But this count?" exclaimed Macbean. "Tell me what you know about him."
"You know more than I do, my dear George," declared Sinclair, with a slysmile, "only you don't choose to tell me. You hold an opinion that heis not a fit and proper person to become the husband of Morini'sdaughter. Admit it."
"I don't yet know who Morini really is," responded his nephew, with aclever diplomacy. "You have not yet told me the general impression inthe neighbourhood regarding the family."
"As I have already said, they're looked upon with distinct suspicion."
"Because they are foreigners--eh?"
"Possibly. We are very insular here in Leicestershire, notwithstandingthe increasing foreign element in the hunting-field."
George slowly knocked the ashes from his pipe, saying--
"We English hold the foreigner in too great contempt. We are apt toforget that there are other Powers constantly conspiring to undermineour strength and to overthrow our sovereignty. The rural stay-at-homeentertains a belief in England's security that is really childish in itssimplicity, and if we have not a wise king, a strong Cabinet, and shrewdmen in our diplomatic service, the mine must explode some day, dependupon it."
"Ah," laughed the rector, "I suppose it's your parliamentaryassociations that make you talk like that. You told me you sometimesprepare speeches for Morgan-Mason to deliver to his constituents. Isthat one of his texts?"
"No, not exactly," replied the other, with a good-humoured smile. "Ionly speak what I think. The ignorance of the public regardingforeigners is simply appalling. They are in utter ignorance of thestate of advancement of certain foreign nations as compared with ourown. We are always slow and conservati
ve, while they are quick to adoptnew inventions, new ideas, and new schemes of progress."
"Mostly gingerbread," remarked the rector.
"Argument upon that point is unnecessary," said Macbean, growingserious. "I only emphasise the fact that a foreign family in England isat a far greater disadvantage than an English family on the Continent.The former is held in suspicion or shunned, while the latter is fetedand welcomed. Ah, my dear uncle, society, with all its sins and vices,is full of amazing prejudices."
"But of course there is another side to the