"Let the police enter," Armytage said, still pressing her slim figure in
his arms. "You know, Gemma, that I love you."
"No, no," she cried trembling; "I will see them alone. I must see them
alone."
"Why?"
"I cannot bear that you should stand by and hear the terrible charge
against me," she answered hoarsely. "No, let me go alone to them;" and
she struggled to free herself.
But he grasped her slim wrist firmly, saying, "I love you, and will be
your protector. If they make allegations against you, they must prove
them. I, the man who is to be your husband, may surely know the truth?"
"But promise me that you will not heed what they say--you will not
believe their foul, unfounded charges," she implored, lifting her pale
face to his.
"I believe implicitly in you, Gemma," he answered calmly. "Let them
come in."
Gemma, her hand in that of her lover, stood blanched and trembling in
the centre of the room as the two police officers in plain clothes
entered.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with a pleasant face,
a pair of dark, piercing eyes, and tiny coal-black moustache; while the
other was younger, and, from the bronze of his countenance, evidently a
Silician.
"We are police officers," the elder man exclaimed. "We would prefer to
speak to the signorina alone."
"I am the closest friend of the signorina," Armytage said calmly. "I am
about to make her my wife."
The officer shrugged his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and a sarcastic
smile played about his lips.
"If I may presume to advise the Signor Conte," he said, "I certainly
think that it would be best if I spoke to her alone."
And Gemma, clinging to her lover, gazed imploringly into his face,
adding--"Yes, caro. Let them speak to me alone."
"No," the young Englishman answered firmly.
"But the matter is a delicate one--extremely delicate," urged the
delegato. "I certainly think that the signorina should be allowed to
decide whether or not you should be present."
"In a week or so we shall marry," declared Armytage. "What concerns
signorina also concerns myself."
"To please me, caro, will you not go out of the room for a moment?"
Gemma cried in a low voice of earnest supplication.
Her attitude was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible
secret, and in those moments her lover had become filled with a keen
desire to penetrate the cloak of mystery which enveloped her.
"No," he answered her, after a brief silence; "I have decided to remain
and hear what the signor delegato has to say."
The police official and the trembling woman exchanged quick glances. In
the officer's gaze was a look of sympathy, for perhaps her beauty had
softened his impressionable Italian nature; in her blue eyes was an
expression of humiliation and abject fear.
"My mission is very quickly accomplished," the delegato exclaimed
slowly.
"You intend to arrest!" Gemma cried hoarsely. "I--I have dreaded this
for a long time past. I knew that, one day or other, you would come for
me, and my reputation would be ruined for ever."
"Listen, signorina," the official said gravely. "Certain information
has been obtained by the Questore, and upon that information I have been
sent here to you. Much as I regret to disturb you, signorina, the
Questore, after carefully considering certain statements before him, has
decided that your presence is undesirable in Livorno, and, further, he
wishes me to inform you that to-day you must leave this city."
Gemma, her face white and drawn, humiliated and abased, sighed deeply,
then breathed again more freely. She had expected arrest, but instead
was ordered out of Livorno. To say the least, the police had been
merciful towards her.
"Then I must leave to-day?" she repeated mechanically.
"Yes, signorina. The penalty for remaining here after this order of the
Questore is immediate arrest," he said.
"But why is this course pursued?" Armytage asked. "For what reason is
the presence of the signorina deleterious in the city? It all seems
very remarkable to me."
"The information before the Qaestore is of a very confidential
character, signore."
"Are you not aware of the allegations against her?"
"No," he replied; "I have only been deputed to warn her to leave
Livorno."
"Is such a measure frequently resorted to?"
"Usually we arrest the suspected individual, question him, and
afterwards deport him to the railway station, if there is not sufficient
ground to justify a prosecution. In this case there is just a simple
warning. Only in very exceptional cases is the course followed which
the Questore is now pursuing."
"Then you have no knowledge of the actual charge in this case?"
"No, signore, I have not. But," he added, "the signorina must herself
know the reason."
Armytage turned quickly to her. Their eyes met for a single instant.
Then she slowly nodded, saying in an indistinct voice: "Yes, yes, I know
only too well the reason of this. I must leave Livorno--leave Italy, my
own country that I love, never to return."
"That would be the very best course to pursue," the delegato urged. "If
you leave Italy, signorina, you will, I think, hear no more of the
unfortunate affair. Indeed, I have strong reasons for believing that
the Questore has acted in the manner he has done purposely, in order
that you should be afforded an opportunity to leave Italy."
"He thinks that exile is preferable to imprisonment," she said aloud, as
if reflecting. "Well, perhaps he is right;" and she laughed a short,
hollow laugh.
"Yes," urged Armytage, "you must leave to-night." She was silent. The
police official exchanged glances with the tall, good-looking young
Englishman, then said, bowing politely--
"I will wish you adieu, signore. A thousand pardons for disturbing you;
but it was my duty, therefore pray forgive me."
"Certainly, certainly," he replied; and both men went out bowing,
leaving Armytage alone with the woman he loved.
"All this is strange--very strange," he observed when they had gone. He
was puzzled; for, after all, he now knew no more than what Consul
Hutchinson had already told him.
"Yes," she said slowly, "to you it must appear extraordinary, but to me,
who expected it and who dreaded it, it was only what might be
anticipated. They have warned me out of Italy, it's true; but if they
knew everything," she added--"if they knew everything, I should to-night
be placed in a criminal's cell."
"Why?"
"Already I have told you it is impossible for me to explain," she
answered vehemently, in her voluble Italian. "If you really love me, it
is surely sufficient to know that the police are in ignorance of facts
which I feared were revealed; and that they have not obtained the one
item of information necessary to effect my ruin and disgrace."
"Why do you speak like this?" he demanded quickly. "Has your past life
in Florence been so full of mystery that you fear its exposure?"
"There are certain matters which I desire to keep secret--which I will
keep secret, even if it costs me the loss of you, the man I adore," she
answered fiercely.
"Then they are matters which surely concern me--if I am to be your
husband," he said gravely.
"No," she answered calmly, still pale to the lips; "they only concern
myself. I admit freely that there is a secret connected with my past--a
secret which I shall strive to preserve, because its revelation would, I
know, cause you, my beloved, much worry and unnecessary pain. I
therefore prefer to hide this truth and fight my enemies alone."
"Is not this secret one that, before marrying you, I ought to know?" he
demanded earnestly.
"It cannot concern you in any way," she declared. "True, it has
reference to my past life, but surely you don't believe me to be an
adventuress--do you?"
"Of course not, piccina," he answered, laughing, as he again placed his
arm tenderly around her waist. "You an adventuress! What made you
suggest such a thing?"
"I must be an enigma to you," she said. "But believe me, I would tell
you everything if I could see that you could be benefited in the least.
The story is a long and wretched one; and when I reflect upon the closed
chapter of my life's history, I am always dolorous and unhappy. The
more so because I'm unable to confide in you, the man I love."
"Will you explain all to me some day?"
"Yes, everything. At present, if I were to tell you, the result would
only be disastrous to myself, and in all probability wreck your
happiness. Silence is best now--far the best."
His face wore a heavy expression of disappointment and dissatisfaction.
Truth to tell, the whole matter was so utterly inexplicable that he
entertained serious misgivings. She noticed this, and raising her sweet
face, now no longer haggard, but pale and sweet-looking, she added--
"Cannot you trust me further, Nino?"
"Trust you, darling!" he cried. "Why, of course I can. Only all this
secrecy worries me."
"Ah no! Don't think of it any more," she urged. "To-night I will leave
with you for Paris. I have a friend there to whom I can go.
Afterwards, in London, we will marry--if you still desire that we
should."
The last words were uttered in a low, tremulous, hesitating tone.
"Still desire!" he echoed. "I still love you as fondly--ah! even more
fervently than before. If you would only confide in me, I should be
entirely happy."
"At present that is impossible," she declared. "Some day, before long,
I hope to be in a position to tell you everything."
"And you are ready to go to London?" he observed. "Half an hour ago you
said you did not wish to go to England!"
"True, because I feared to go. Now I no longer fear. I am ready, even
eager to accompany you if you still wish."
"Then we will go straight to Paris; and when I have concluded my
business, which will occupy perhaps a couple of days, we'll go on to
London."
"Benissimo!" she answered, raising her full, red lips to his. "I so
want to see your great and wonderful London, caro. I've read so much
about it. It must be gigantic. I shall be so happy and content with
you as my guide. To see London has ever been the dream of my life."
"Ah! I'm afraid you'll be sadly disappointed, piccina," he said, again
smiling. "After your bright, beautiful Italy, our busy, bustling,
smoke-blackened city will seem terribly dull, monotonous, and dreary.
The sky is seldom blue, and the atmosphere never clear and bright like
this. In your Tuscany everything is artistic--the country, the towns,
the people; but in England--well, you will see for yourself."
"But there are lots of amusements in London," she said, "and life there
is always gay."
"For the rich, London offers the greatest and most diverse attractions
of any place in the world; but for the poor, herded together in millions
as they are, it is absolutely the worst. In Italy you have much poverty
and distress, but the lot of the poor man is far easier here than in
toiling, turbulent, over-crowded London."
"One never appreciates the town in which one lives, be it ever so
beautiful," she laughed.
"Well, be patient, and you shall see what London is like," he said.
"But it is already two o'clock. You must lunch, and afterwards pack
your trunks. Our train leaves at half-past nine to-night, and at Pisa
we shall join the night-mail to the frontier. I'll wire to the
sleeping-car office in Rome, and secure our berths in the through car
for Paris."
"Ah! Nino," she exclaimed happily, "I am content, very content to leave
Italy with you. An hour ago I had reasons for remaining; but now it is,
of course, impossible; and, strangely enough, I have no further object
in staying here."
"And you will not regret leaving?"
"Of course not," she said, flinging herself into his ready arms and
shedding tears of joy. "I fear nothing now, because I know that you
love me, Nino," she sobbed. "I know you will not believe anything that
is alleged against me. You have asked me to marry you, and I am
content--ah! absolutely content to do so. But even now I do not hold
you to your promise, because of my inability to divulge to you my
secret. If you think me untrue or scheming, then let us part. If you
believe I love you, then let us marry in England and be happy."
"I love you, Gemma," he answered low and earnestly. "Let us go together
to London, and let this be the last hour of our doubt and unhappiness."