In an old and easy dressing-gown, Gemma was idling over her tea and
toast in her room on the morning after her lover had been shooting down
in Berkshire, when one of the precocious messenger-lads delivered a note
to her.
At first she believed it to be from Armytage, but, on opening it, found
scribbled in pencil on a piece of paper, the address, "73, St James's
Street, second floor;" while enclosed were a few words in Italian
inviting her to call at that address on the first opportunity she could
do so secretly, without the knowledge of her lover. The note was from
Tristram.
With a cry of anger that he should have already discovered her presence
in London, she cast the letter from her and stamped her tiny foot,
crying, in her own tongue--
"Diavolo! Then ill luck has followed me--even here!" For a long time
she sat, stirring her tea thoughtfully, and gazing blankly at her rings.
"No," she murmured aloud in a harsh, broken voice; "I won't see this
man. Let him act as he thinks fit. He cannot wreck my happiness more
completely than it is already. Major Maitland is a friend of the man I
love. Is not that fact in itself sufficient to show me that happiness
can never be mine; that it is sheer madness to anticipate a calm,
peaceful life with Charles Armytage, as my husband? But Dio! Was it
not always so?" she sighed, as hot tears rose in her clear blue eyes,
and slowly coursed down her cheeks. "I have sinned; and this, alas! is
my punishment." Again she was silent. Her breast heaved and fell
convulsively, and with hair disordered and unbound she presented an
utterly forlorn appearance. Her small white hands were clenched, her
lips tightly compressed and in her eyes was an intense expression as if
before her had arisen some scene so terrible that it froze her senses.
At last the striking of the clock aroused her, and she slowly commenced
to dress. She looked at herself long and earnestly in the mirror, and
saw how deathly pale she had become, and how red were her eyes.
Presently, as she crossed the room, she noticed the letter, and,
snatching it up, slipped the paper with the address into her purse,
tearing up the note into tiny fragments.
It was past eleven when she descended to the great hall, and there found
her lover seated on one of the lounges, smoking and patiently awaiting
her.
They sat together in the hall for a few minutes, then took a taxi and
drove about the West End. Armytage did not fail to observe how Gemma's
beauty and foreign chic were everywhere remarked. In the streets men
stared at her admiringly, and women scanned her handsome dresses with
envious eyes; while in the hotel there were many low whisperings of
admiration. Yet he could not conceal from himself the fact that she was
as mysterious as she was beautiful.
While passing across Grosvenor Square, she had been suddenly seized with
excitement, for her quick eyes caught sight of a red, white, and green
flag, hanging limp and motionless from a flagstaff upon one of the
largest houses.
"Look! There's our Italian flag! Why is it there?" she cried, thrilled
at sight of her own national colours.
"That's the Embassy," he replied. "I suppose today is some anniversary
or other in Italy."
"The Embassy!" she repeated, turning again to look at it. "Is that
where Count Castellani lives?"
"Yes. He's your Ambassador. Do you know him?"
"I met him once in Florence. He was at a ball at the Strossi Palace."
"Then you know Prince Strossi?" he exclaimed. "Quite well," she
answered. "The Strossis and my family have long been acquainted."
Her prompt reply made it apparent to him that she had moved in the most
exclusive set in Florence. She had never before mentioned that she was
acquainted with people of note. But next instant he recollected the
strange story which the Florentine Doctor had told him on the previous
afternoon. Had not Malvano declared that her family was an undesirable
one to know? What, he wondered, was the reason of this curious
denunciation?
Again she fixed her eyes upon the Embassy, and seemed as though she were
taking careful observation of its appearance and position.
"Did you go much into society in Florence?" he inquired presently.
"Only when I was forced to," she answered ambiguously. "I do not care
for it."
"Then you will not fret even if, after our marriage, you know only a few
people?"
The word "marriage" caused her to start. It brought back to her the
hideous truth that even now, after he had brought her to England, their
union was impossible.
"No," she answered, glancing at him with eyes full of love and
tenderness. "I should always be happy with you alone, Nino. I should
want no other companion."
"You would soon grow dull, I fear," he said, taking her hand in his.
"No, never--never," she declared. "You know well how I love you, Nino."
"And I adore you, darling," he answered. Then, after looking at her in
hesitation for a moment, he added. "But you speak as though you still
fear that we shall not marry. Why is that?" He had not failed to
notice her sudden change of manner when he had spoken of marriage.
"I really don't know," she answered, with a forced laugh. "I suppose it
is but a foolish fancy, yet sometimes I think that this happiness is too
complete to be lasting."
"What causes you to fear this?" he asked earnestly. "When I reflect
upon the unhappiness of the past," she said with a sigh--"when I
remember how bitter was my life, how utterly blank and hopeless was the
world prior to our meeting, I cannot rid myself of the apprehension that
my plans, like all my others, will be thwarted by the one great secret
of my past; that all my castles are merely air-built; that your love for
me, Nino, will soon wane, and we shall part."
"No, no, piccina," he cried, placing his arm tenderly around her waist,
beneath the warm cape she wore. "It is foolish--very foolish to speak
like that. You surely have no reason to doubt me?"
"I do not doubt your love, Nino. I doubt, however, whether you have
sufficient confidence in me to await the elucidation of the strange
mystery which envelops me--a mystery which even I myself cannot
penetrate."
"Have I not already shown myself patient?" he asked with a reproachful
look.
"Yes, yes, mio adorato," she hastened to reassure him. "You are good
and kind and generous, and I love you. Only--only I fear the future. I
fear you--I fear myself."
"Why do you fear me, little one?" he asked. "Surely I'm not so
monstrous--eh?"
The hand he held trembled.
"I distrust the future--because I know the fate cruel and terrible--
which, sooner or later, must befall me," she exclaimed, with
heart-sinking.
"You steadily decline to tell me anything," he said. "If you would only
confide in me, we might together find some means to combat this
mysterious catastrophe."
"I cannot! I dare not!"
"But you must!" he cried. "You shall!"
"I refuse?" she answered fiercely.
"You shall not suffer this constant terror merely because of a foolish
determination to preserve your secret. After all, I suppose it is only
some curious and unfounded dread which holds you awe-stricken, when you
could afford to laugh it all to scorn."
"You will never wring confession from me, Nino--never!"
Her eyes met his fixedly, determinedly. On her countenance was an
expression as if she were haunted by a shadow of evil, as if even then
she saw before her the dire disaster which she had declared must ere
long wreck her life, and extinguish all hope of happiness. No further
word passed her lips, and a silence fell between them until the cab drew
up at the hotel.
The afternoon being bright and sunny, they went down to the Crystal
Palace.
To Gemma, all was fresh and full of interest; she even found in the
plaster imitations of well-known statues something to criticise and
admire, although she admitted that, living within a stone's throw of the
world-famed Uffizi Gallery, she had never entered the Tribuna there, nor
seen the Satyr, the Wrestlers, or the Medici Venus.
After spending an hour in the Palace, they emerged into the grounds,
and, descending the many flights of steps, passed the great fountains,
and strolled down the long, broad walk towards Penge, it being their
intention to return to town from that station. The sun was going down,
a grey mist was rising, and the chill wind of evening whisked the dead
leaves in their path. The spacious grounds were silent, deserted,
cheerless.
She had taken his arm, and they were walking in silence beneath the
fast-baring branches through the half-light of the fading day, when
suddenly he turned to her, saying--"I've been thinking, Gemma--thinking
very deeply upon all you told me this morning. I must tell you the
truth--the truth that it is impossible for me to have complete
confidence in you if you have none in me. The more I reflect upon this
strange secret, the more am I filled with suspicion. I cannot help it.
I have struggled against all my doubts and fears--but--"
"You do not trust me?" she cried hoarsely. "Did I not express fear only
this morning that you would be impatient, and grow tired of the steady
refusals I am compelled to give you when you demand the truth?"
"Having carefully considered all the facts, I can see no reason--
absolutely none--why you should not explain the whole truth," he said
rather brusquely.
"The facts you have considered are those only within your own
knowledge," she observed. "There are others which you can never know.
If you could only understand the situation aright, you would at once see
plainly the reason that I am prepared for any sacrifice--even to lose
your love, the most precious gift that Heaven has accorded me--in order
to preserve my secret."
"Then you are ready to wish me farewell if I still press for the truth?"
he cried, dismayed; for the earnestness of her words impressed him
forcibly.
"I am," she answered in a low, intense voice.
They had halted in the broad, gravelled walk, and were alone.
"Listen!" he cried fiercely, as a sudden resolve seized him. "This
cannot go on longer, Gemma. I have brought you here to London because I
love you, because I hoped to make you my you wife. But you seem
determined to keep all the story of your past from me." Then,
recollecting Malvano's words when they had been shooting together, he
added, "If you still refuse to tell me anything, then, much as it
grieves me, we must part."
"Part!" she echoed wildly. "Ah yes, Nino! I knew you would say that.
Did I not tell you long, long ago, that it would be impossible for us to
marry in the present circumstances? You doubt me? Well, I am scarcely
surprised!" and she shuddered pale as death.
"I doubt you because you are never frank with me."
"I love you, Nino," she protested with all the ardour of her hot Italian
blood as she caught his hand suddenly and raised it to her fevered lips.
"You are my very life, for I have no other friend in the world. Surely
you have been convinced that my affection is genuine, but I have not
deceived you in this!"
"I believe you love me," he answered coldly, in a half-dubious tone
nevertheless.
"Ah no, caro!" she lisped softly, reproachfully, in her soft Tuscan.
"Do not speak like that. I cannot bear it. If you can trust me no
longer, then let us part. I--I will go back to Italy again." And she
burst into a torrent of hot tears.
"You'll go back and face the mysterious charge against you?" he asked,
with a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, as he drew his hand firmly from
hers.
His words caused her to start. She looked him fiercely in the face for
an instant, a strange light in her beautiful, tearful eyes, then cried
huskily--
"Yes, if you cast me from you, Nino, I care no longer to live. I cannot
live without your love."