Outside it was a dry, crisp, frosty night, but in Doctor Malvano's
drawing-room at Lyddington a great wood fire threw forth a welcome glow,
the skins spread upon the floor were soft and warm, and the fine,
old-fashioned room, furnished with that taste and elegance which a
doctor of independent means could afford, was extremely comfortable and
cosy. "Ben," the Doctor's faithful old black dog, lay stretched out
lazily before the fire, a pet cat had curled itself in the easiest of
easy chairs, and with her white fingers rambling over the keys of the
grand piano sat a slim, graceful woman. It was Gemma.
With Mrs Nenci as companion, she had been visiting at Lyddington for
about a fortnight, and, truth to tell, found life in that rural village
much more pleasant than in the unwholesome side street off the Walworth
Road. They had both left Boyson Road suddenly late one night, after
receiving a note from Nenci, who had been absent a couple of days. This
note was one of warning, telling them to fly, and giving them directions
to go straight to Lyddington. This they had done, receiving a cordial
welcome from the Doctor, who had apparently received word by telegraph,
and understood the situation perfectly. So they had installed
themselves in the Doctor's house, and led a quiet, tranquil life of
severe respectability. Gemma dressed well, as befitted the Doctor's
visitor, for she had received one of her trunks which, after leaving the
Hotel Victoria, she had deposited in the cloak-room at Charing Cross
Station, and her costumes were always tasteful and elegant. She had
obtained a cycle from Uppingham, and the weather being dry and frosty,
she rode daily alone over the hilly Rutlandshire roads, to old-world
Gretton, to long, straggling Rockingham, with its castle high up among
the leafless trees, to Seaton Station, or even as far afield as the tiny
hamlet of Blatherwycke. The honest country folk looked askance at her,
be it said, for her natural chic she could not suppress, and her cycling
skirt was just a trifle too short, when judged from an English
standpoint. Her dress was dark blue serge, confined at the waist by a
narrow, white silk ribbon, its smartness having been much admired when
she had spun along the level roads of the Cascine. But English and
Italian ideas differ very considerably, and she was often surprised when
the country people stood and gaped at her. Yet it was only natural.
When she dismounted she could only speak half a dozen words of English,
and Rutland folk are always suspicious of the foreigner--especially a
woman.
As she sat at the piano on this chilly night, she looked eminently
beautiful in a loose, rich tea-gown of sage-green plush, with front of
pale pink silk, a gown of striking magnificence, with its heavy silver
belt glittering beneath the shaded lamplight. It was made in a style
which no English dressmaker could accomplish, and fastened at the throat
by a quaint brooch consisting of three tiny golden playing-cards, set
with diamonds and rubies, and fastened together by a pearl-headed pin, a
charming little phantasy. The pink silk, in combination with the sombre
green, set off her fair beauty admirably, yet her face was a trifle wan
as she mechanically fingered the keys with all the suppleness and
rapidity of a good player. But she was Tuscan, and the love of music
was in her inborn. In her own far-off country one could hear the finest
opera for sixpence, and there was scarcely any household that did not
possess its mandoline, and whose members did not chant those old
canzonette amorose. Music is part of the Italian's life.
She stopped at last, slowly glancing around the handsome room, and
drawing a heavy sigh. At that moment a sense of utter loneliness
oppressed her. Her companion, Mrs Nenci, had retired to bed half an
hour before, and the Doctor was still in his study, where he usually
spent the greater part of his time. He was often locked in alone for
hours together, and was careful never to allow any one to enter on any
pretext. She had, indeed, never seen the interior of Malvano's den, and
was often seized with curiosity to know how he spent his time there
through so many hours. As she sat silent, she pondered, as she ever
did, over her lost lover, and wondered if he were still in England, or
if, weary and despairing, he had left for the Continent again.
"He has misjudged me," she murmured--"cruelly misjudged me."
Her fathomless blue eyes glistened with tears, as, turning again to the
instrument, she commenced to play and sing, in a soft, sweet contralto,
the old Tuscan love-song, "Ah! non mi amava"; the song sung by the
contadinelle in the vineyards and the maize-fields, where the green
lizards dart across the sun-baked stones--where life is without a care,
so long as one has a handful of baked chestnuts, or a plate of polenta
di castagne--where the air is sweet and balmy and the very atmosphere
breathes of love.
"E mi diceva che avria sfidato,
Per ottenermi tutto il creato;
Che nel mio sguardo, nel mio sorriso
Stavan le gioie del Paradiso.
E mentre al core cosi parlava.
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!
"Tu sei, diceva, l'angelo mio:
Tu sei la stella d'ogni desio:
Il sol mio bene sei che m'avanza;
Tu de' miei giorni se' la speranza.
Fin le sue pene mi raccontava,
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!"
Slowly, in a voice full of emotion, she sang the old song she had heard
so many times when a child, until its sad, serious air trembled through
the room.
Behind her were two long windows, which, opening upon the lawn, were now
heavily curtained to keep out the icy draughts. Blasts of cold air
seemed to penetrate to every corner of that high-up house, exposed as it
was to the chill winds sweeping across the hills. As she was singing,
one of the maids entered with her candle, and placing it upon the table,
wished her good-night.
"Good-night!" she answered in her pretty broken English; and, when the
girl had gone, went on playing, but very softly, so as not to disturb
the household. Her voice, full of emotion, had repeated the final words
of that passionate verse--
"Non aveva core che per amarmi
Con i suoi detti ei m'ingannava,
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!"
when the curtains before one of the windows behind her suddenly stirred,
and an eager face peered through between them. The slight sound
attracted her, and she turned quickly with a low exclamation of fear.
Next, instant, however, she sprang up from the piano with a glad cry,
for the man who had thus secretly entered was none other than Charles
Armytage.
"You, Nino!" she gasped, pale and trembling, holding aloof from him in
the first moments of her surprise.
"Yes," he replied in a low, intense tone, standing before her in hat and
overcoat. "I came here to see the Doctor, but hearing your
well-remembered voice outside, and finding the window unfastened, came
in. You--you do not welcome me," he added with disappointment. "Why
are you here?"
"Welcome you!" she echoed. "You, who are in my thoughts every day,
every hour, every moment; you who, by leaving me, have crushed all hope,
all life from me, Nino! Ah! no; I--I welcome you. But forgive me; I
never expected that we should meet in this house, of all places."
"Why?"
She hesitated. Her fingers twitched nervously.
"Because--well, because you ought not to come here," she answered
ambiguously. She remembered Nenci's covert threat, and knew well what
risks her lover ran. He was in deadly peril, and only she herself could
shield him.
"I don't understand you," he exclaimed. "I have for the past month
searched everywhere for you. You left the hotel and disappeared; I have
made inquiries in Livorno and in Florence, believing you had returned to
Italy, and here to-night, as I passed across the lawn, I heard your
voice, and have now found you."
"Why?" she inquired, her trembling hand still upon the piano. "Is not
all our love now of the past? I am unworthy of you, Nino, and I told
you so honestly. I could not deceive you further."
"Heaven knows!" he cried, "you deceived me enough. You have never even
told me your real name." She looked at him with an expression of fear
in her eyes. "Ah!" she cried. "You know the truth, Nino. I see by
your face!"
"I know that you, whom I have known as Gemma Fanetti, are none other
than the Contessa Funaro!" Her breast heaved and fell quickly, and she
hung her head. "Well?"
He moved towards her, his hands still in the pockets of his heavy tweed
overcoat.
"Well," he repeated, "and what excuse have you for so deceiving me?"
"None," she answered in her soft Tuscan, her eyes still downcast. "I
loved you, Nino, and I feared--"
She hesitated, without finishing the sentence.
"You feared to tell me the truth, even though you well knew that I was
foolishly infatuated; that I was a love-blind idiot? No; I don't
believe you," he cried fiercely. "You had some further, some deeper
motive." She was silent. Her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the
lace of her gown, and she grew pallid and haggard.
"I now know who you are; how grossly you have deceived me, and how
ingeniously I have been tricked," he cried bitterly, speaking Italian
with difficulty. "You whom I believed honest and loving, I have found
to be only an adventuress, a woman whose notoriety has spread from Como
to Messina."
"Yes," she cried hoarsely, "yes, Nino, I am an adventuress. Now that my
enemies have exposed me, concealment is no longer possible. I deceived
you, but with an honest purpose in view. My name, I well know, is
synonymous with all that is vicious. I am known as The Funaro--the
extravagant woman whose lovers are legion, and of whom stories of
reckless waste and ingenious fraud are told by the _jeunesse doree_ in
every city in Italy. Ask of any of the smart young men who drink at the
Gambrinus at Milan, at Genoa, at Rome, or at Florence, and they will
relate stories by the hour of my wild, adventurous life, of my loves and
my hatreds, of my gaiety and my sorrow. Yes, I, alas I know it all. I
have the reputation of being the gayest woman in all gay Italy; and
yet--and yet," she added in a soft voice, "I love you, Nino."
"No!" he cried, drawing from her with repugnance, as if in fear that her
hands should touch him; "it is not possible that we can exchange words
of affection after this vile deceit. All is now plain why the police of
Livorno ordered you to leave the city; why Hutchinson, the Consul, urged
me to part from you; why, when we drove together in those sun-baked
streets, every one turned to look at you. They knew you!" he cried.
"They knew you--and they pitied me!"
She shrank at these cruel, bitter words as if he had dealt her a blow.
From head to foot she trembled as, with an effort, she took a few uneven
steps towards him.
"You denounce me!" she cried in a low tone. "You, the man I love,
declare that I am base, vile, and heartless. Well, if you wish, I will
admit all the charges you thus level against me. Only one will I
refute. You say that I am an adventuress; you imply that I have never
loved you."
"Certainly," he cried. "I have been your dupe. You led me to believe
in your innocence, while all the time the papers are commenting upon
your adventures, and printing scandals anent your past. Because I did
not know your language well, and because I seldom read an Italian
newspaper, you were bold enough to believe that I should remain in utter
ignorance. But I have discovered the extent of your perfidy. I know
now, that in dealing with you, I'm dealing with one whose shrewdness and
cunning are notorious throughout the whole of Italy."
"Then you have no further love for me, Nino?" she asked blankly, after a
brief space.
"Love! No, I hate you!" he cried. "You led me to believe in your
uprightness and honesty, yet I find that you, of all women in Italy, are
the least desirable, as an acquaintance--the least possible as a wife!"
"You hate me?" she gasped hoarsely. "You--Nino!--hate me?"
"Yes," he cried, his hands clenched in excitement, "I hate you!"
"Then why have you come here?" she asked. "Even if you had heard my
voice, you need not have entered this room to taunt me."
"I have come to call upon the Doctor," he answered. "Eleven o'clock at
night is a curious hour at which to call upon a friend," she observed.
"Your business with him must be very pressing."
"It is--it is," he answered quickly, striding to and fro. "I must see
him to-night."
"Why?"
"Because I leave England to-morrow."
"You leave England?" she said hoarsely. "You intend to leave me here?"
"Surely you are comfortable enough? Malvano is Italian, and, although I
was not aware that you were acquainted with him, he is nevertheless a
very good fellow, and no doubt you are happy."
"Happy!" she cried. "Happy without you, Nino! Ah! you are too cruel!
If you could but know the truth; if you could but know what I have
suffered, what I am at this moment suffering for your sake, you would
never treat me thus--never."
"Ah! your story is always the same--always," he laughed superciliously.
"I know now why you would never invite me to your house in Florence.
You could not well take me to your great palazzo without me knowing its
name. Again, you lived in that small flat in the Viale at Livorno
instead of at your villa at Ardenza, that beautiful house overlooking
the sea, coveted by all the Livornesi."
"I have a reason for not living there," she exclaimed quickly. "I have
not entered it now for two years. Perhaps I shall never again cross its
threshold."
"And it is untenanted?"
"Certainly. I do not wish to let it."
"Why?"
"It is a caprice of mine," she answered. "To a woman of my character
caprices are allowed, I suppose?" Then, after a slight hesitation, she
raised her fine eyes to his, saying, "Now tell me candidly, Nino, why
have you come here to-night?"
"To see the Doctor. I want to consult him."
"Are you ill?" she asked with some alarm, noticing that he was unusually
pale.
"No, I want his advice regarding another matter, a matter which concerns
myself." As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and saw how
handsome she was. In that loose gown of silk and plush, with its heavy
girdle, she looked, indeed, the notorious Countess Funaro about whom he
had heard so much scandalous gossip.
Slowly she advanced towards him, her small white hands outstretched, her
arms half bare, her beautiful face upturned to his. Those eyes were so
blue and clear, and that face so perfect an incarnation of purity, that
it was hard to believe that she was actually the notorious woman who had
so scandalised Florentine society. He stood before her again,
fascinated as he always had been in her presence in those bygone sunny
days in Tuscany, when he had basked daily in her smiles and idled lazily
beside the Mediterranean.
"Nino," she said, in a soft crooning voice scarcely above a whisper--a
voice which showed him she was deeply in earnest--"Nino, if it pleases
you to break my heart then I will not complain. I know I deserve all
the terrible punishment I am now enduring, for I've sinned before Heaven
and have sinned against you, the man who loved me. You cast me aside as
a worthless woman because of my evil reputation; you credit all the base
libellous stories circulated by my enemies; you believe that I have
toyed with your affection and have no real genuine love for you. Well,
Nino," she sighed, "let it be so. I know that now you are aware of my
identity you can never believe in my truth and honesty; but I tell you
that I still love you, even though you may denounce and desert me."
He turned from her with a gesture of impatience.
"Tell me, Nino," she went on eagerly, following him and grasping his arm
convulsively, "tell me the truth. Why are you here to-night?"
He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement to free himself from her
grasp.
"Malvano is Italian," he answered. "I have come to consult him upon a
matter in which only an Italian can assist me."
"I am Italian," she said quickly. "Will you not let me render you at
least one service, even if it be the last?" She looked earnestly into
his face, and her soft arms wound themselves around his neck.
"I have no faith in you," he answered. "I was a fool to enter here, but
your voice brought back to me so many memories of those days that are
dead, and I couldn't resist."
"Then you still think of me sometimes, caro," she said, clinging to him.
"Your love is not yet dead?"
"It is dead," he declared, fiercely disengaging himself. "Gemma, whom I
knew and loved in Livorno, will ever remain a sad sweet memory
throughout my life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro, the woman
against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, I can never trust, I can
never love."
She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A deathlike pallor
overspread her face, and her eyes grew large, dark, and mournful. There
are some griefs that are too deep, even for tears.
"You cannot trust me, Nino," she cried a moment later. "But you can
nevertheless heed one word which I speak in deepest earnest."
"Well?"
"Leave this house. Do not seek this man, Malvano."
"Why?" he inquired, surprised. "He's my friend. We have met once or
twice since we shot together in Berkshire."
Again she advanced close to him, so close that he felt her breath upon
his cheek, and the sweet odour of lilac from her chiffons filled his
nostrils.
"If you absolutely refuse to tell me the reason you have come here
to-night, then I will tell you," she whispered. "You are in fear."
"In fear? I don't understand."
"You have enemies, and you wish to consult the Doctor with regard to
them," she went on boldly. Then, in a voice scarcely audible, she
added, whispering into his ear: "You have received warning."
He started suddenly, looking at her dismayed.
"Who told you? How did you know?" he gasped. "I cannot now explain,"
she answered breathlessly, still holding his arm in convulsive grasp,
panting as she spoke. "It is sufficient for you to know the intention
of your enemies, so that you may be forewarned against them."
"Then it is actually true that I'm in personal danger!" he cried. "To
my knowledge I've never done an evil turn to anybody, and this is all a
puzzling enigma. The letter here"--and he drew from his overcoat a note
which had been delivered by a boy-messenger at his chambers in Ebury
Street--"this letter is evidently written by an Italian, because of the
flourish of the capitals: and I came here to-night to ask Malvano the
best course to pursue. I'm staying in the neighbourhood, over at
Apethorpe."
"Then leave at once," she urged earnestly. "Tomorrow, get away by the
first train to London, and thence to the Continent again. Take
precautions that you are not followed. Go to France, to Germany, to
Spain, anywhere out of reach. Then write to me at the Poste Restante,
at Charing Cross, and I will come to you."
"But why? How do you know all this?"
"Look at that letter, Nino," she said in a low, deep tone. "Look once
again at the handwriting."
He opened it beneath the silk-shaded lamp and scanned it eagerly.
"It's yours," he gasped, the truth suddenly dawning upon him. "You
yourself have given me this warning!" She nodded.
"Tell me why, quickly," he cried, placing his hand upon her shoulder.
"Tell me why."
"I warned you, Nino," she answered, in a soft, hoarse voice; "I warned
you because I love you."
"But what have I to fear?" he demanded. "If I'm threatened I can seek
protection of the police. To my knowledge I haven't a single enemy."
"We all of us blind ourselves with that consolation," she replied. "But
listen. Of all men, avoid Malvano. Leave this house at once, and get
out of England at the earliest moment. Your enemies are no ordinary
ones; they are desperate, and hold life cheap."
"But you!" he cried, puzzled. "You are here, in the house of this very
man against whom you warn me!"
"Ah! do not heed me," she answered. "Your love for me is dead. Yet I
am still yours, and in this matter you must, if you value your safety,
trust me."
"But Malvano is an excellent fellow," he protested. "I must just wish
him good-night. What would he think if he knew I had been here and had
this private interview with you?"
"No, Nino," she cried, her countenance pale and earnest. "You must not!
You hear me? You must not. If it were known that I had given you
warning then my position would be one of greater peril than it now is."
"But surely I need not fear the Doctor? Every one about here knows him.
He's the most popular man for miles around."
"And the most dangerous," she whispered. "No, for my sake, fly, Nino.
He may enter this room at any moment. I love you, and no harm shall
befall you if you will obey me. Leave this place at once, and promise
me not to make any attempt to see Malvano." His eyes met hers, and he
saw in them a love-light that was unmistakable. By her clear open
glance he became almost convinced that she was speaking the truth. Yet
he still hesitated.
"Ah!" she cried, suddenly flinging her arms again about his neck. "Go,
Nino; you are unsafe here. Leave England to-morrow for my sake--for my
sake, caro. But kiss me once," she implored in her sweet, lisping
Italian. "Give me one single kiss before you part from me."
His brow darkened. He held his breath.
"No, no," she cried wildly, divining his disinclination, "I am not the
Contessa Funaro, now. I am Gemma--the woman who loves you, the woman
who is at this moment risking her life for you. Kiss me. Then go.
Fly, caro, abroad, and may no harm befall you, Nino, my beloved!" Then
she raised her beautiful face to his.
His countenance relaxed, he bent swiftly, and their lips met in one
long, tender, passionate caress. Then, urged by her, he wished her a
whispered farewell, and disappeared through the heavy curtains before
the window as silently as he had come, while she stood panting,
breathless, but in an ecstasy of contentment. Once again he had pressed
her lips and breathed one single word of love.