One afternoon, a week later, Gemma was idling in her cosy private
sitting-room at the Hotel Victoria. She had returned there in an
involuntary manner, because it was the only hotel she knew in London.
It had been a wet, dismal day, and by three o'clock it had become so
dark that she had been compelled to switch on the electric light in
order to see to write. During two hours she had not risen, but had
continued covering sheet after sheet of foolscap with her fine angular
writing. She wrote with the air of one accustomed to write, folding
down the left-hand edge of her paper so as to create a margin and
writing on one side of the sheet only. Before commencing, she had
several times read through a long and apparently deeply interesting
letter, making careful notes upon it before commencing. Then, drawing
her chair closer to the table, she took up her pen and wrote away at
express speed, now and then halting to reflect, but quickly resuming
until she had filled a dozen folios. At last she concluded abruptly,
and without signature, afterwards leaning back in her little Chippendale
armchair, turning over the numbered pages, and reading through what she
had written. When she had finished, she paused and looked straight
before her blankly. Her lips moved, but no sound escaped them.
Presently she took from the dressing-bag open beside her a large
linen-lined blue envelope, whereon was printed in Italian "Private.--To
His Excellency the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs,
Rome." Into this she placed what she had written, afterwards sealing it
at each corner and in the centre, in the manner the Italian
Administration of Posts requires insured letters to be secured.
This done, she paused, resting her head wearily on her hands, as if
tired out. Suddenly there was a loud rap at the door, and one of the
hotel message-boys entered with a card.
"Show him up at once," Gemma answered in her broken English, after she
had glanced at the name; and a few minutes later a sour-faced,
middle-aged Italian entered, bowing.
"Good-evening, Califano," she said. "It is quite ready;" and she handed
him the secret despatch. "You leave for Rome to-night--eh?"
"Si--Signora Contessa," the man answered. "I arrived in London only an
hour ago, and I leave again _subito_. The Marquis has sent me expressly
for this."
"Then see that he gets it at the earliest possible moment," she said
quickly. "It is of the utmost secrecy and importance."
"I quite understand, Signora Contessa," the man courteously replied,
carefully placing the envelope in the breast-pocket of his heavy frieze
overcoat. "His Excellency has already given me instructions."
"Va bene. Then go. Make all haste, for every hour lost may place Italy
in greater jeopardy. Remember that your early arrival is absolutely
imperative." She spoke authoritatively, and it was evident that they
were not strangers.
"I shall not lose an instant," answered the Minister's private
messenger. "The Contessa has no further commands?" he added
inquiringly.
"None," she answered briefly. "Arivederci!"
"Arivederci, Signora Contessa," he replied; and a moment later Gemma
found herself again alone.
"God forgive me!" she murmured as she paced the room wildly agitated.
"It's the only way--the only way! I have transgressed before man and
before Heaven in order to free myself from this hateful tie of heinous
sin; I have risked all in order to gain happiness with the man I love.
And if I fail"--she paused, pale-faced, haggard-eyed, shuddering--"if I
fail," she went on in a changed voice, "then I must take my life."
She threw herself into a chair before the fire, and was silent for a
long time. The dressing-bell sounded, but she took no heed; she had no
appetite. The crowded table d'hote, with its glare and colour and
clatter, jarred upon her highly-strung nerves. She had dined in the
great gilded saloon the night before, and had resolved not to do so
again. She would have a little soup and a cutlet brought to her room.
At that moment she was calmly, deliberately contemplating suicide.
She sat in the low chair, her elbows on her knees, gazing gloomily into
the fire. The loose gown of pale lilac silk, with deep lace at the
collar and cuffs, suited her fair complexion admirably, although it
imparted to her a wan appearance, and made her look older than she
really was, while the tendrils of her gold-brown hair, straying across
her brow, gave her a wild, wanton look. Even as she sat, her eyes fixed
upon the leaping flames, hers was still a countenance frail, childlike
in its softness, purity, and innocence of expression--a face perfect in
its symmetry, and one in which it was difficult to conceive that any
evil could lurk.
The diamonds upon her fingers sparkling in the fitful firelight caught
her gaze. She looked long and earnestly at the strange ring of
turquoise and diamonds upon her right hand, and the sad memories it
recalled caused her to sigh deeply, as they ever did. Again she
remained plunged in a deep debauch of melancholy, until suddenly the was
aroused from her reverie by a loud knocking at her door and her hotel
number being shouted by the lad in buttons.
"Gentleman wishes to see you, ma'am," the youngster said, handing her
another card.