Chapter Ten. The Mystery of Gemma.

When Armytage entered Gemma’s pretty salon, the window of which commanded a wide view of the blue Mediterranean, she rose quickly from the silken divan with a glad cry of welcome. She was veiled and gloved ready to go out, wearing a smart costume of pearl grey, with a large black hat which suited her fair face admirably.

“How late you are!” she exclaimed a trifle impetuously, pouting prettily as their lips met. “You said eleven o’clock, and it’s now nearly one.”

“I’ve had a good deal to see after,” he stammered. “Business worries from London.”

“Poor Nino!” she exclaimed sympathetically in her soft Italian, putting up her tiny hand and stroking his hair tenderly. Nino was the pet name she had long ago bestowed upon him. “Poor Nino! I didn’t know you were worried, or I would not have complained. Excuse, won’t you?”

“Of course, dearest,” he answered, sinking a trifle wearily into a chair; whilst she, regarding him with some surprise, reseated herself upon the divan, her little russet-brown shoe stretched forth coquettishly from beneath the hem of her well-made skirt.

The room was small, but artistic. Its cosiness and general arrangement everywhere betrayed the daily presence of an artistic woman; and as he sat there with his eyes fixed upon her, he became intoxicated by her marvellous beauty. There was a softness about her face, an ingenuous sweetness which always entranced him, holding him spell-bound when in her presence.

“You are tired,” she said in a low, caressing tone. “Will you have some vermouth or marsala? Let me tell Margherita to bring you some.”

“No,” he answered quickly; “I had a vermouth at Campari’s as I passed. I’m a trifle upset to-day.”

“Why?” she inquired quickly, regarding him with some astonishment.

He hesitated. His eyes were riveted upon her. The sun-shutters were closed, the glare of day subdued, and he was debating whether or not he should relate to her in that dim half-light all that had been told him an hour ago. In those brief moments of silence he remembered how, on the afternoon he had encountered Tristram at Pancaldi’s, she had expressed surprise that he should love her so blindly, without seeking to inquire into her past. He remembered his foolish reply. He had told her he wished to know nothing. If he demanded any explanation now, it would convince her that he doubted. Yes, Hutchinson’s advice was best. At present he must act diplomatically, and remain silent.

“The reason why I am not myself to-day is because I must leave you, Gemma,” he said slowly at last, in a low, earnest voice.

“Leave me!” she gasped, starting and turning pale beneath her veil.

“Yes,” he replied quickly. “It is imperative that I should start for Paris to-night.”

“Has my Nino had bad news this morning?” she asked in a sympathetic tone, bending and extending her hand until it touched his.

Its contact thrilled him. In her clear blue eyes he could distinguish the light of unshed tears.

“Yes,” he answered—“news which makes it necessary that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible moment.”

“And how long shall you remain?” she inquired.

“I shall not return to Italy,” he replied decisively, his eyes still upon hers.

“You will not come back to me?” she cried blankly. “What have I done, Nino? Tell me, what have I done that you should thus forsake me?”

“I do not intend to forsake you,” he answered, grasping her hand. “I will never forsake you; I love you far too well.”

“You love me!” she echoed, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Then why go away and leave me alone? You must have seen how fondly I love you in return.”

“I shall not go alone,” he answered her, rising and placing his arms tenderly about her neck. “That is, if you will go with me.”

“With you?” she exclaimed, her face suddenly brightening. “With you, Nino?”

There was a deep silence. She gazed into his dark, serious eyes with an expression of love and devotion more eloquent than words; and he, still holding her hand, bent until their lips met in a fierce, passionate caress.

“Surely you do not fear to travel with me without regard for the convenances?” he said.

“Have we not already set them at naught?” she answered, looking earnestly into his face. “Unfortunately, I have no chaperone, no friends; therefore, according to Italian manners, your presence here in my house is against all the laws of etiquette;” and she laughed a strange, hollow laugh through her tears.

“We can, I think, Gemma, set aside etiquette, loving each other as we do!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand. “Let us go together to London, and there marry.”

“Why not marry in Italy?” she suggested, after a pause. “Marriage at your British Consulate is binding.”

The mention of the Consulate brought back to his memory all that Hutchinson had said. Her words seemed to imply that she did not wish to leave Tuscany.

“Why in Italy?” he inquired. “You have no tie here!”

She hesitated for a moment.

“No, none whatever,” she assured him in a voice which sounded strangely harsh and unconvincing. He attributed her agitation to the excitement of the moment and the fervency of her love.

“Then why do you wish to remain?” he inquired bluntly.

“I have reasons,” she replied mechanically, her eyes slowly wandering around the room. Suddenly she rose, and hastily snatching up an open letter that was lying upon the mantelshelf, crushed it within the palm of her gloved hand. He was sitting with his back to the mantel, therefore he saw nothing of this strange action, and believed, when she went out of the room a moment later, that she went to speak with her servant.

True, she spoke some words with Margherita in the kitchen, but placing the letter upon the burning charcoal, she watched the flame slowly consume it. Then, with a parting order to Margherita uttered in a tone distinctly audible to her lover, she returned smilingly to his side.

“For what reason do you want to remain here?” he inquired when she had reseated herself with a word of apology for her absence.

“It is only natural that I should be loth to leave my own country,” she answered evasively, laughing.

“No further motive?” he asked, a trifle incredulously. “Well, I have many acquaintances in Florence, in Milan, and Rome.”

“And you desire to remain in Italy on their account?” he exclaimed. “Only the other day you expressed satisfaction at the suggestion of leaving Italy.”

“I have since changed my mind.”

“And you intend to remain?”

“Not if you are compelled to leave Livorno, Nino,” she answered with that sweet smile which always entranced him.

In her attitude he detected mystery. She appeared striving to hide from him some important fact, and he suddenly determined to discover what was its nature. Why, he wondered, should she desire to remain in Tuscany after the satisfaction she had already expressed at the prospect of life in England?

“I am compelled to go to-night,” he said. “The train leaves at half-past nine, and we shall take the through wagon-lit from Pisa to Paris at midnight. If you’ll be ready, I’ll wire to Rome to secure our berths in the car.”

“Then you really mean to leave?” she asked in a tone of despair.

“Certainly,” he replied, puzzled at her strange manner.

“It will perhaps be better for me to remain,” she observed with a deep sigh.

“Why?”

“If we marry, you would tire of me very, very soon. Besides, you really know so little of me;” and she regarded him gravely with her great, clear, wide-open eyes.

“Ah, that’s just it!” he cried. “You have told me nothing.”

She shrugged her shoulders with a careless air, and smiled.

“You have never inquired,” she answered.

“Then I ask you now,” he said.

“And I am unable to answer you—unable to tell the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling hand seeking his.

“Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and staring at her in blank surprise.

“Because—because I love you too well to deceive you,” she sobbed. Then she added, “No, after all, it will be best for us to part—best for you. If you knew all, as you must some day—if we married, you would only hate me;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding tears.

“Hate you—why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her slim waist.

With a sudden movement she raised her veil and wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief.

“Ah! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. “I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”

“There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, purposely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had just uttered.

“You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” she said, sighing deeply.

“Then you will not accompany me?”

Her blue eyes, childlike in their innocence, were fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears.

“For your sake it is best we should part,” she answered hoarsely.

“Why? I cannot understand your meaning,” he cried. “We love one another. What do you fear?”

“I fear myself.”

“Yourself?” he echoed. Then, drawing her closer to him, he exclaimed in a low intense voice, “Come, Gemma, confide in me. Tell we why you desire to remain here; why you are acting so strangely to-day.”

She rose slowly from the divan, a slim, woeful figure, and swayed unevenly as she answered—

“No, Nino. Do not ask me.”

“But you still love me?” he demanded earnestly. “Have you not just expressed readiness to marry me?”

“True,” she replied, pale and trembling. “I will marry you if you remain here in Livorno. But if you leave—if you leave, then we must part.”

“My journey is absolutely necessary,” he declared. “If it were not, I should certainly remain with you.”

“In a week, or a fortnight at most, you can return, I suppose? Till then, I shall remain awaiting you.”

“No,” he replied firmly. “When I leave Italy, I shall not return.” Then, after a slight pause, he added in a low, sympathetic tone, “Some secret oppresses you. Gemma. Why not take me into your confidence?”

“Because—well, because it is utterly impossible.”

“Impossible! Yet, we love one another. Is your past such a profound secret, then?”

“All of us, I suppose, have our secrets, Nino,” she replied earnestly. “I, like others, have mine.”

“Is it of such a character that I, your affianced husband, must not know?” he asked in a voice of bitter reproach.

“Yes,” she answered nervously. “Even to you, the man I love, I am unable to divulge the strange story which must remain locked for ever within my heart.”

“Then you have no further confidence in me?”

“Ah! Yes, I have, Nino. It is my inability to tell everything, to explain myself, and to present my actions to you in a true light, that worries me so.”

“But why can’t you tell me everything?” he demanded.

“Because I fear to.”

“I love you, Gemma,” he assured her tenderly. “Surely you do not doubt the strength of my affection?”

“No,” she whispered, agitated, her trembling fingers closing upon his. “I know you love me. What I fear is the dire consequences of the exposure of my secret.”

“Then, to speak plainly, you are in dread of the actions of some person who holds power over you?” he hazarded.

She was silent. Her heart beat wildly, her breast heaved and fell quickly; her chin sank upon her chest in an attitude of utter dejection.

“Have I guessed the truth?” he asked in a calm, serious voice.

She nodded in the affirmative with a deep-drawn sigh. “Who is this person whom you fear?”

“Ah! no, Nino,” she burst forth, trembling with agitation she had vainly striven to suppress. “Do not ask me that. I can never tell you—never!”

“But you must—you shall!” he cried fiercely. “I love you, and will protect you from all your enemies, whoever they may be.”

“Impossible,” she answered despairingly. “No, let us part. You can have no faith in me after my wretched admissions of to-day.”

“I still have every faith in you, darling,” he hastened to reassure her. “Only tell me everything, and set my mind at rest.”

“No,” she protested. “I can tell you nothing—absolutely nothing.”

“You prefer, then, that we should be put asunder rather than answer my questions?”

“I cannot leave Italy with you,” she answered simply but harshly.

“Not if we were to marry in England as soon as the legal formalities can be accomplished?”

“I am ready to marry you here—to-day if you desire,” she said. “But I shall not go to London.”

“Why?”

“I have reasons—strong ones,” she answered vehemently.

“Then your enemies are in London?” he said quickly. “Are they English?”

At that instant the door-bell rang loudly, and both listened intently as Margherita answered the somewhat impetuous summons. There were sounds of low talking, and a few moments later the servant, pale-faced and scared, entered the room, saying—

“Signorina! There are two officers of police in the house, and they wish to speak with you immediately.”

“The police!” Gemma gasped, trembling. “Then they’ve discovered me!”

There was a look of unutterable terror in her great blue eyes; the light died instantly out of her sweet face; she reeled, and would have fallen had not her lover started up and clasped her tenderly. Her beautiful head, with its mass of fair hair, fell inert upon his shoulder. This blow, added to the mental strain she had already undergone, had proved too much.

“Nino,” she whispered hoarsely, “you still love me—you love me, don’t you? And you will not believe what they allege against me—not one single word?”