"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 att.i.tude; 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 pa.s.sionately, 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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE SACRIFICE.

The glaring afternoon had drawn to a close.

Camillo Morini, after a heavy day's work in the silence of the big old library at San Donato shaded from the sun-glare, rose, and joining Mary, went out along the hill to enjoy the _bel fresco_ of the departing day.

The Italian habit is to go out and wander at sundown, and when up at his villa His Excellency always made it a rule to take a stroll through the cool pine woods, generally accompanied by Mary; for his wife was not a good walker, and seldom ventured far. Therefore father and daughter, in the two hours preceding dinner, frequently made excursions on foot through the smiling vineyards and great pine forests around the magnificent old mansion.

They had skirted the mediaeval walls of the village and pa.s.sed down the old cypress avenue, saluted on every side by their _contadini_, then striking off on a bypath through the wood they halted at a point known by the countryfolk as the Ma.s.sa del Fate--or Fairy's Rock--where there opened suddenly before them a magnificent view--Tuscany, the paradise of Europe, in the sundown.

Surely nothing could be so beautiful as the lines of the Arno valley, the gentle inclination of the hills, and the soft fugitive outlines of the mountains which bounded them. A singular tint and most peculiar harmony united the earth, the sky, and the wide winding river. All the surfaces were blended at their extremities by means of an insensible gradation of colour, and without the possibility of ascertaining the point at which one ended or another began. It appeared ideal, possessing a beauty beyond nature; it was nevertheless the genuine light of old-world Tuscany.

The Minister of War, in his white drill suit and straw hat, a trifle negligent of attire as he always was when he was up there in that remote retreat, halted at the break in the high dark pines, gazed out upon the marvellous panorama, and inhaled a deep breath of the cool, refreshing wind that came up from the valley with the sundown.

After hours of intricate work in his darkened study he stood there to refresh himself, while Mary, in pale blue with a big straw hat, was at his side, her eyes turned away up the valley, reflecting upon some meaning words he had just uttered.

Mary often came to that lonely point on the high-up estate to enjoy the grand scene of departing day. In that hour, when the evening bells came up from the white villages dotted far below, the summits of the Apennines appeared to consist of lapis-lazuli and pale gold, while their bases and sides were enveloped in a vapour which had a tint now violet, now purple. Beautiful clouds like light chariots borne on the wind with inimitable grace that came from seaward made one easily comprehend the appearance of the Olympian deities under that mythological sky. Ancient Florence seemed to have stretched out all the purple of her Cardinals, her Signori, and her Medici, and spread it under the last steps of the G.o.d of Day.

"Well?" asked the Minister, as he watched the girl's beautiful face set full to the dying sunset and saw the far-off look in her wonderful eyes.

"I have nothing to say, father--nothing," was her quiet answer as she turned to him, and he saw that she was on the point of tears.

"Then you are content that it should be so? I mean you will permit me to give a favourable reply to the count?" he said, not without some hesitation. He had aged visibly since those quiet days in rural England, and the lines upon his pale brow gave him an expression of deep anxiety.

She sighed, and for a few moments made no response.

"Is it your wish that I should marry him?" she asked in a low, mechanical tone, her face pale, her hands trembling.

"I have no desire to place undue pressure upon you, my dear," he said, placing his hand kindly upon her shoulder. "I merely ask you what response you wish me to give. He came to me while I was sitting alone in Rome three nights ago, and requested permission to pay his court to you."

"And what response did you give?" she inquired in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"I told him that I desired to hear your own views before giving him an answer."

She was again silent, her face turned to the darkening valley. The sundown in Italy disappears less quickly than in England, for when the tints are on the point of vanishing they suddenly break out again and illumine some other point of the horizon. Twilight succeeds twilight, and the charm of closing day is prolonged.

"And what is your wish, father?" she asked presently, still looking blankly before her; for those grey fading lights seemed to be but the reflection of her own fading life and happiness.

"Well, Mary," he said, his hand still upon her shoulder, "let me speak frankly and candidly. This morning I discussed the matter fully with your mother, and we both came to the conclusion that the count is a very eligible man. Neither of us desire you to marry if you entertain no love for him, but both in England and in Italy we have noticed for a year past that you have not been averse to his attentions, and--well, I may as well tell you quite plainly, my dear--we have been much gratified to think that the attraction has been mutual. Yet," he added, "it lies with you entirely to accept or to reject him."

"It would please you, father, if I became the Comtesse Dubard, would it not?" she asked, tears that were beyond her control springing to her eyes.

"It would please both of us," he said in a low, earnest voice. "But you yourself must decide. That he will make you a good husband, I have no doubt. Yet, as I have already said, as your father I would be the very last to endeavour to force you to marry a man you do not love."

She did not reply. He stood gazing upon her face, and his own thoughts were sad ones. Soon, very soon, the blow might fall, and then his wife and daughter would be left alone. He was, therefore, anxious to see her married before that catastrophe, which he knew was inevitable.