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-naturedrector and his nephew George.
The little rural fete, encouraged by the richer residents, was, likeother village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers toexhibit their "twelve best varieties of vegetables," their "six bestpot-plants," the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticulturalpossessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, wellmanaged, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses inthe neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the openclasses.
The judges--three gardeners from a distance--had inspected the exhibitsin the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with thecommittee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or threecottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, beenentertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o'clockthe village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up theirmusic-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, thevillagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent,anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured cardindicative of a prize.
At half-past two several smart carriages had driven up, and at last camethe Morini landau, containing Mr Morini and his wife and daughter Mary.Basil Sinclair and George having welcomed them at the gate, Mr Moriniwas conducted to a small platform on the lawn, where, after a few wordsof introduction from the rector, he made a short speech in fairly goodEnglish, declaring the flower-show open.
Afterwards the party were conducted round the show by Sinclair, whileGeorge, of course, walked with Mary, who looked cool and sweet in asimple gown of pale grey voile, with a large grey hat to match.
As they walked around the tent, close beneath the noonday sun and heavywith the odour of vegetables and perfume of flowers, she congratulatedhim upon the success of the show.
Thornby always looked forward to the flower-show, for it was a gala dayfor the village; its four shops were closed, across the road at the topof the hill the committee stretched a string of gay bunting, and whendusk came the rectory garden was illuminated and there was dancing onthe lawn. Thornby made every occasion an excuse for a dance, and theannual _al fresco_ ball on the rector's lawn was the chief event of theyear.
It was His Excellency's first visit to the rectory, therefore MrSinclair showed him the old-fashioned house, the grounds, the quaint oldfifteenth-century church with its curious sculptured tombs, old carvedoak and monumental brasses, while Mrs Morini, meeting several ladies ofher acquaintance on the lawn, left Mary free to walk and talk withGeorge Macbean.
For a whole long week of never-ending days he had been eagerlyanticipating that meeting. Never for one moment had he ceased to thinkof her. The sweet, fair-faced girl was in peril, he knew, and if itwere possible he intended to save her. But how? Ah! that was thequestion.
Although so deeply in love with her, he was judicious enough to saveappearances, knowing well that the eyes of the whole countryside wereupon him. The rustic is ever on the alert to discover defects in hismaster, and gossip in a village generally errs on the side ofill-nature. Therefore he was careful to appear gallant, and yet not toopressing in his attentions--a somewhat difficult feat with the strongardour of love burning within him.
They were strolling together through the quaint old flower-gardensloping gently away towards the placid river, where they foundthemselves alone, when Mary, turning her beautiful face to him, suddenlysaid--
"I had no idea, Mr Macbean, that you had met my father in Rome. He wasvery much interested the other day, and after you had gone made quite alot of inquiries about you."
"It was very kind of him," was the young man's laughing reply. "Imerely went as interpreter to Mr Morgan-Mason, who had business at yourMinistry of War."
Then, as they halted beneath the trees at the water's edge, where therewas a cool, refreshing breeze, she exclaimed suddenly, with a slightsigh, "Ah, how I wish we always lived in dear old England! I alwayslook back upon my schooldays by the sea as the happiest in all my life;but now,"--and she drew a long breath again. "It is so different inItaly."
Yes. She was sad, he recognised--very sad. But why? Her young heartseemed oppressed by some hidden grief. He saw it in her fine dark eyesat the moments when she was serious. Time after time, as he spoke toher and she answered, he recognised that upon her mind rested some heavyburden which oppressed and crushed her. Her resolute yet gentle spirit,her simple, serious, domestic turn of mind distinguished her from allthe other women of his acquaintance. Her reveries, her simplicity, hermelancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly femininebearing, even though that of a cosmopolitan, were the characteristics ofa womanly woman--a woman who would struggle unsubdued against thestrangest vicissitudes of fortune, meeting with unshaken constancyreverses and disasters such as would break the most masculine spirit.
George Macbean recognised all this, and more. He saw that she was atheart a thoroughly English girl, fond of tennis, hockey, and a countrylife, who had been transplanted into an artificial world of glare andglitter, of empty etiquette and false friendships, and yet who, at thesame time, seemed to be held transfixed by some secret upon herconscience.
What was it? he wondered. Was he, after all, mistaken?
The longer he remained in her company, the more mystified did he become.He knew too well the character of Jules Dubard; he knew that she wasmarked down a victim, and he intended to stand as her friend--herchampion if need be--even at peril to himself.
As she leaned over the old wooden rail at the river brink, gazing acrossthe calm, unruffled waters, she chatted with gay vivacity about theirmutual friends in the neighbourhood, and related her failure at a tennistournament held on the previous day by a colonel's wife on the otherside of Rugby.
"I suppose you often see Count Dubard in Rome," he said at last, withsome attempt at indifference. "He is in Italy a great deal nowadays, Ihave heard."
"He was in Rome this winter," she answered. "He often came to mymother's receptions."
"He has a very wide circle of acquaintances, has he not?"
"Yes, mostly military men. He seems to know half of the officers inRome. I thought I knew a good many, for crowds come to us everyThursday, but he knows far more."
"And of course your father sends him cards for the official receptionsat the Ministry of War?"
"Certainly--why?" she asked, glancing quickly at her companion with somesurprise.
"Oh, nothing," he laughed uneasily. "I was only reflecting that he musthave a very pleasant time in Italy, that's all."
"I believe he enjoys himself," she said. "But every foreigner who hasmoney and is recognised by his Embassy can have a pleasant time in Romeif he likes."
"But not every foreigner enjoys the friendship of the Minister of War,"he remarked--"nor of his daughter," he added, with a smile.
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
"Ah!" she protested, with one of those quaint little foreign gestures."There you are again, Mr Macbean! Teasing me because these ignorantpeople here say that I'm engaged to the count. It is really too bad ofyou! Did I not assure you the other day that it is quite untrue?"
"Forgive me!" he exclaimed, raising his panama hat, bowing as though shewere an entire stranger, and yet laughing the while. "I had nointention of giving offence. Envy is permitted, however--is it not?"
"Oh, it hasn't given me offence at all?" she laughed frankly. "You see,there's no truth in the rumour, therefore I can afford to laugh."
Her words struck him as very strange. They seemed to convey that if theengagement were really a fact it would cause her regret and annoyance.
"I wanted to meet Dubard so much," he remarked in a tone of regret. "Isuppose there is no chance he will return to Orton?"
"Not this summer, I thin
k. He left us to go direct to Paris, and then Ibelieve he goes to his estate in the Pyrenees."
"But he came here intending to spend a week or so at Orton, did he not?"
"Yes; but he received a letter recalling him to France," she said."Father says he didn't receive any letter. If he really didn't, hesurely could have left without telling us a lie."
Macbean smiled. How little she knew of the real character of JulesDubard, the plausible _elegant_ who was such a prominent character atthe Jockey Club and in the Bois.
"Very soon," she added, in a tone of regret, "we shall have to return.My father is due back at the Ministry on the fourth of next month, andwhile he is there we shall go up to San Donato, our villa aboveFlorence, and stay for the vintage,