"Show him up."
Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, but to her cheeks there came a
slight flush, whether of excitement or of anger it was difficult to
determine. Her brows were knit, and, as she glanced at herself in the
mirror, she felt dissatisfied with herself, because she knew she looked
haggard and ugly.
As she turned away from the glass with a gesture of determination, Frank
Tristram entered.
"Well," she inquired, turning quickly upon him the moment they were
alone. "Why have you the audacity to seek me?"
"Hear me out, Gemma, before you grow angry!" he exclaimed, advancing
towards her. "I have come to crave your forgiveness;" and he stood with
bent head before her, motionless, penitent.
"My forgiveness? You ask that after your attempt to take my life?" she
retorted.
"I was mad, then," he declared quickly. "Forgive me. I ask your
forgiveness in order that one you know may be made happy."
"I don't understand you."
"Carmenilla. I'm going to marry her," he explained briefly.
"To marry Carmenilla!" she exclaimed, surprised.
He nodded. "Tell me that you forgive my madness that night," he urged.
"Remember that both you and I are hemmed in by enemies on every side;
that our interests are exactly identical. In return for your
forgiveness, I am ready to assist you in any way possible."
Her clear eyes rested upon him with unwavering gaze.
"And you ask my forgiveness," she said in atone of contempt at length.
"You--who murdered Vittorina--a helpless, friendless girl."
"I--murdered her!" he cried uneasily, with a look of abject terror.
This denunciation was utterly unexpected. "What made you suspect that?"
"To any one who had knowledge of the facts, it's quite plain," she
answered boldly. "Ah! do not try to deceive me. The police were in
ignorance, therefore they could have no clue, and could make no arrest.
I, however, am aware of the reason poor Vittorina's life was taken; I
know that her presence was detrimental to all our plans, and that she
was enticed here, to London, in order that she might die. It is useless
for you to protest your innocence to me." Her face was hard, her eyes
fixed immovably upon his.
He shrank beneath her searching glance, and stood before her with bent
head in silence.
"You cannot deny that you had a hand in the crime?" she went on
relentlessly. "You, a murderer, ask my forgiveness!"
"Ah! Gemma," he cried hoarsely, "forgive me." Then, without heeding
the terrible denunciation she had levelled against him, continued, "We
have both suffered much, you and I; you perhaps more than myself because
you have earned ill repute, and been compelled to pose as an
adventuress. But those who know you are well aware that you have always
been an honest woman, that your so-called adventures have only been
taken in order to act the ignoble part which you were compelled to act,
and in every way that you are worthy the love of an upright man like
Armytage. Forgive me," he urged in a low, intense voice, stretching
forth his hand. "Forgive me!"
Her troubled breast heaved and fell. In that instant she remembered
what the black-robed nuns had told her long ago at San Paolo della
Croce--that the first step towards penitence was forgiveness. She
looked straight into the face of the man before her for several moments
in hesitation, then at last, in a low, faltering tone, said--"The evil
you tried to do me I forgive freely; but--but I cannot take the hand of
a murderer"; and she turned away suddenly, her silken gown sweeping past
him where he stood.
"Then you will allow me to marry Carmenilla? You will not denounce me
as one who tried to take your life?" he cried eagerly, following her a
few paces.
"Your secret will be mine," she answered coldly. "I have forgotten, and
bear you no malice."
She was standing beside the fire, once again idly contemplating her
rings. The diamonds of the quaint one, with its turquoise centre,
seemed to glitter with extreme brilliance and with an evil glint that
night.
Presently Tristram advanced swiftly, almost noiselessly, until he
reached her side. Then again he proffered his hand, asking--
"May we not be friends?"
"We are no longer enemies," she answered, disregarding his invitation to
exchange the hand-clasp of friendship. "This interview is painful," she
added. "I have forgiven you. Surely that is sufficient?"
"I believed you to be my enemy--I thought that you had denounced me to
the police on that night when my mad passion got the mastery," he said
apologetically. "I assure you that I have deeply regretted ever since."
"It is past," she said in a chilly voice. "To recall it is needless."
After reflecting for some moments, he commenced to protest his innocence
of the crime she attributed to him; but with a gesture of impatience she
held up both her hands as if to shut out his presence from her gaze, and
then slowly he left the room without further word.
Afterwards she stood, a slim, graceful figure, leaning upon the
mantelshelf, gazing down into the fire. Now and then sighs escaped her;
once a shudder ran over her, for her thoughts were still weird and
morbid. She was debating whether death by her own hand was not
preferable to the strange life she had been for the past two years
compelled to lead, still dubious as to whether at last she could secure
happiness beside the young Englishman whom she loved with all her soul,
and for whom she had risked her life.
Through ten days she remained alone in the great hotel and found London
horrible. She went out but little, as the weather was gloomy and wet,
and spent her time in her warm private sitting-room in reading, or doing
fancy needlework. She had written to Armytage, and received an
immediate response, which set her mind at ease. He had urged that he
might be allowed to see her, but she had replied firmly in the negative.
If she desired him to come to her, she would telegraph. In a couple of
hours he could be at her side. Fettered as she was hand and foot,
knowing that her lover's enemies sought his life, yet without power to
save him, she existed in those days in constant dread lest they should
discover his presence in England, and carry out their design. The life
of a man is just as easily taken in England as it is in Italy, and she
knew well her associates to be desperate, and that they would now
hesitate at nothing in order to guarantee success of their plans.
One night, after she had been at the hotel about a fortnight, she
dressed her hair as carefully as she could, possessing no maid, and
putting on a pretty evening gown of pale blue, cut low and filled with
fine old lace drawn round the throat in the manner of evening dresses in
vogue in Italy, she wound around her head a pale-blue silken scarf she
had purchased in Livorno, one of those worn by the Livornese girls on
festive days, and, assuming a rich cape trimmed with otter, drove in a
hansom to Lady Marshfield's in Sussex Square.
The man-servant, without taking her name, showed her at once to the
drawing-room. He had no doubt received instructions. Upon the
threshold she stood for an instant holding her breath, as if in fear;
then, bracing herself for an effort, entered the room, a striking
figure, proud, erect, handsome, the diamond crescent sparkling in her
hair, her silken skirts sweeping behind her with loud _frou-frou_. At
that moment she was La Funaro, the notorious woman whose striking
costumes had so often been the envy and admiration of fashionable Italy.
In the great apartment there had assembled, in a group near the fire,
the Doctor, the Gobbo, Romanelli, and Nenci. All four were in well-cut
evening clothes, and were chatting affably, her ladyship, ugly, yet
affecting youth, holding a little court about her. On Gemma's entrance
there was an instant's silence. Then with almost one voice they
welcomed her, crying, "Viva, La Funaro!"
Smiling, she shook hands with each in turn, and sank on the silken
settee beside her hostess.
"We are still waiting for one other," her ladyship said, glancing at the
clock. "He is late." Afterwards, turning to Gemma, the eccentric old
woman began to pay her all sorts of compliments in very fair Italian,
while the men stood together smoking and chatting, sometimes in
mysterious undertones.
At last the person for whom they had apparently been waiting entered,
hot and flushed. It was Tristram. He shook hands with all, except with
Gemma. To her he merely bowed.
Lady Marshfield, a few minutes later, rose and passed into the small
inner room--a signal for her guests to follow. Then, when they had
entered, the door was locked, Romanelli alone remaining outside in the
drawing-room to guard against the possibility of any of the servants
acting as eavesdropper. A table had been placed in the centre of the
apartment, and around this they at once assembled, while Nenci, opening
the lady's dressing bag which he carried, took therefrom a small oblong
box of polished oak, which he set upon the table, afterwards displaying
the exquisite replica of the bust of the reigning sovereign of Italy.
"Beautiful!" they all cried with one accord. "Nothing could be better!"
"Its action is marvellous," Malvano explained. "We have already tried
it. The effect is frightful. When set, it contains explosives enough
to reduce every house in this street to ruins."
They looked at one another and shuddered.
"It's really very inoffensive-looking," her ladyship remarked, raising
her glasses, deeply interested. "I hope it isn't charged!"
"Oh dear, no," Nenci laughed, taking it in his hand. "I've brought it
here to show how the mechanism is contrived;" and bending towards her,
he opened its malachite base, showing the empty receptacle for the
explosive compound, the hole for the tiny tube of acid, and the small
clockwork mechanism no larger than a watch imbedded deeply in
cotton-wool, so as to be noiseless. Standing at the table, he glanced
keenly from one to the other as he explained its working. As he handled
the bust tenderly, his keen black eyes seemed to shine with an evil
light.
When he had concluded, he replaced the mechanical portions he had
removed, and put the bust back into the dressing-bag beside him.
"No, no," Malvano said, smiling grimly, some minutes later. "Don't hide
it away, Lionello. It's well worth our admiration, and does you credit.
This is the last time we shall have an opportunity of seeing it, so let
it remain on the table."
All joined in a chorus of laughter and approbation, and Nenci, fumbling
in the bag at his side, reproduced it and placed it upon the table in
full view of their gaze. At that moment Gemma, deep in conversation
with her ladyship, did not notice that the bust was before them, and not
until Nenci and Malvano had left the room together in order to consult
with the foppishly dressed young man outside in the drawing-room, did
she detect its presence.
Then, with a sudden scream of wild alarm, she dashed forward, her bare
arms raised in despair, crying--
"Look! Look! This is not the bust he showed us at first, but another!
This one is charged! Fly quickly--all of you! In another instant this
house will be in a mass of ruins, and we shall all be blown to atoms!
This is Nenci's diabolical vengeance!"
With one accord they sprang from their chairs and rushed towards the
door. Tristram was the first to gain it, turned the handle.
"God! It's locked!" he shrieked.
Nenci, the sinister-faced man who, with his two infamous companions, had
secured them in that room with the frightful engine of destruction in
their midst, had ingeniously escaped. Speechless, with faces blanched,
they exchanged quick apprehensive glances of terror. Those moments were
full of terrible suspense. All knew they they were doomed, and
appalled, rooted to the spot by unspeakable terror, none dared to move a
muscle or touch that exquisite bust upon the table. Each second ticked
out clearly by the Sevres clock upon the mantelshelf brought them nearer
to an untimely and frightful end; nearer to that fatal moment when the
tiny glass tube must be shattered by the internal mechanism, and thus
cause an explosion which would in an instant launch them into eternity.