Chapter Eleven. Silence is Best.

“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 Questore 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.”