Chapter Eighteen. What Lady Marshfield Knew.

Some days passed. Charles Armytage had not called again at the hotel, having resolved to end the acquaintance. He regretted deeply that he had brought Gemma to London; yet when he pondered over it in the silence of his own rooms in Ebury Street, he told himself that he still loved her, that she was chic, beautiful, and even this mystery surrounding her might one day be elucidated.

The action of the authorities in Leghorn puzzled him. Gemma’s secret was, without doubt, of a character which would not bear the light of day. Still, as days went on and he heard nothing of her, he began to wonder whether she was at the hotel, or whether she had carried out her intention of returning to Italy.

He loved her. This brief parting had increased his affection to such an extent that he thought of her hourly, remembering her sweet, musical voice, her pretty broken English, her happy smiles whenever he was at her side. Her face, as it rose before him in his day-dreams, was not that of an adventuress, but of a sweet, loving woman who existed in mortal terror of some terrible catastrophe; its childlike innocence was not assumed; her blue eyes had the genuine clearness of those of an honest woman.

Thoughts such as these filled his mind daily. He passed the hours at the rooms of friends, at the club, at the theatres, anywhere where he could obtain distraction, but in all he saw the same face, with the same calm look of reproach, those same eyes glistening with tears as had been before him in the hall of the Victoria on that well-remembered evening when they parted.

At last, one morning, he could bear the suspense no longer. Bitterly reproaching himself for having acted so harshly as to leave her alone in a country where she was strange and did not know the language, he took a cab and drove down to Northumberland Avenue.

He inquired at the bureau of the hotel, and was informed that the Signorina Fanetti had left three days ago, and that she had given no address to which letters might be forwarded. He thanked the clerk, turned, and went blindly down the steps into the street, crushed, grief-stricken, the sun of his existence blotted out.

He remembered his protestations in Livorno; he remembered all that had passed between them, and saw that he had acted as a coward and a cad. That she loved him he had no doubt, and it was also plain to him that she had left London heart-broken.

Armytage was very well known in London, and as soon as his friends knew he was back again, the usual flow of invitations poured in upon him. In his endeavour to divert his thoughts, he accepted all and sundry, and one evening went to Lady Marshfield’s, whose receptions were always a feature of London life.

The eccentric old lady had long been his friend. Like so many other young and good-looking men, he had been “taken up” by her ladyship, flattered, petted, and fêted, utterly unconscious that by allowing this to be done he was making himself the laughingstock of the whole set in which he moved. But the ugly old woman’s attentions had at last nauseated him, as they had done every other young man, and his absence abroad had for a time prevented him calling at Sussex Square.

But to the card for this particular evening was added, in her ladyship’s own antiquated handwriting, a few words expressing pleasure at his return to London, and a hope that he would call and see her.

Lady Marshfield’s junketings were distinctly brilliant on account of the large number of the diplomatic corps which she always gathered about her and this evening there was a particularly noteworthy crowd. There were many young attachés, many pretty girls, a few elderly diplomats, a fair sprinkling of members of Parliament, and a large gathering of the exclusive set in which her ladyship moved. The rooms were well-lit, the electricity bringing joy to every feminine heart, as it always does, because it shows their jewels to perfection; the flowers were choice and abundant, and the music was by one of the most popular orchestras in London. But it was always so.

When Charles Armytage shook the old lady’s hand at the head of the stairs, her thin blue lips parted in what she considered her sweetest smile, and she said: “You have quite deserted me, Charles. I hear you’ve been in London a whole fortnight, and yet this is your first visit!”

“I’ve been busy,” he answered. “I was away so long that I found such lots of things wanting my attention when I came back.”

“Ah! no excuses, no excuses,” the old lady croaked. “You young men are always full of excellent reasons for not calling. Well, go in; you’re sure to find some people you know. When I can, I want to have a serious chat with you, so don’t leave before I’ve seen you again. Promise me?”

“Certainly,” he said, as he passed on into the apartment filled to overflowing with its distinguished crowd.

Careless of all about him, he wandered on through the great salons until he met several people he knew, and then the evening passed quite gaily.

At last, an hour past midnight, he found himself again at Lady Marshfield’s side.

“Well,” she said as they passed into one of the small rooms then unoccupied, for the guests were already departing—“well, why have you been so long away?”

“I had no incentive to stay in England,” he said. “I find life much more amusing on the Continent, and I’m a bit of a Bohemian, you know.”

“When you are in love—eh?” she laughed.

Her words stabbed him, and he frowned.

“If I want a wife, I suppose I can find one in London,” he snapped, rather annoyed.

“But it was love which kept you in Tuscany so long,” she observed with sarcasm. “Because you love Gemma Fanetti.”

He started in surprise.

“How did you know?” he inquired.

“News of that sort travels quickly,” the old lady answered, glancing at him craftily. “It is to be regretted.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman of her character could never become your wife, Charles,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Take my advice; think no more of her.” Strange, he pondered, how every one agreed that her past would not bear investigation, yet all seemed to conspire against him to preserve the secret.

“We have already parted,” he said in a low voice. On many previous occasions they had spoken together confidentially.

At that moment a man-servant entered, glanced quickly across the room, and noticing with whom his mistress was conversing, turned and rapidly made his exit. Armytage was seated with his back to the door, therefore did not notice that the eminently respectable servant was none other than the man in whose company he had shot down in Berkshire—the jovial Malvano. That evening the movements of the village doctor of Lyddington had been somewhat mysterious. He had arrived about dinner-time as an extra hand, and had served refreshments in the shape of champagne-cup, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits to the hungry ones—and it is astonishing how hungry and thirsty people always are at other people’s houses, even if they have only finished dinner half an hour before. His face was imperturbable, his manner stiff, and the style in which he handled plates and glasses perfect.

One incident, at least, would have struck the onlooker as curious. While standing behind the improvised buffet serving champagne, Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador, a tall, striking figure with his dozen or so orders strung upon a tiny golden chain in his lapel, approached and demanded some wine. Malvano opened a fresh bottle, and while pouring it out His Excellency exclaimed in a low half-whisper in Italian—

“To-morrow at twelve, at the Embassy.”

“Si, signore,” the other answered without raising his head, apparently still engrossed in pouring out the wine.

“You’re still on the alert?” asked the Ambassador in an undertone.

“Si, signore.”

“Good! To-morrow I must have a consultation with you,” answered His Excellency, tossing off the wine.

By the secret confidences thus exchanged, it was evident that Count Castellani and Doctor Malvano thoroughly understood each other; and, further, it was plain that upon some person in that assembly Filippo, head-waiter at the Bonciani, was keeping careful observation. Yet he apparently attended to his work as a well-trained servant should; and even when he discovered Armytage with her ladyship, he was in no way confused, but retreated quietly without attracting the young man’s attention.

“Why have you parted from Gemma?” her ladyship asked.

“Well,” answered Armytage, hesitating, “have you not said that she’s an impossible person?”

“Of course. But when a man’s in love—”

“He alters his mind sometimes,” he interrupted, determined not to tell this woman the truth.

“So you’ve altered your mind?” she said. “You ought really to congratulate yourself that you’ve been able to do so.”

“Why?”

Lady Marshfield regarded her visitor gravely, fanned herself slowly in silence for some moments, then answered—

“Because it is not wise for a man to take as wife a woman of such an evil reputation.”

“Evil reputation?” he echoed. “What do you mean by evil?”

“Her reputation is wide enough in Italy. I wonder you did not hear of her long ago,” her ladyship answered. “You speak as if she were notorious.”

“Ask any one in Turin, in Milan, or Florence. They will tell you the truth,” she replied. “Your idol is, without doubt, the most notorious person in the whole of Italy.”

“The most notorious?” he cried. “You speak in enigmas. I won’t have Gemma maligned in this way,” he added fiercely.

She smiled. It was a smile of triumph. She was happy that they were already parted, and she sought now to embitter him against her, in order that he should not return to her.

“Have you never heard of the Countess Funaro?” she asked in a calm voice.

“The Countess Funaro!” he cried. “Of course I have. Her escapades have lately been the talk of society in Rome and Florence. Only a couple of months ago a duel took place at Empoli, the outcome of a quarrel which she is said to have instigated, and the young advocate Cassuto was shot dead.”

“He was her friend,” her ladyship observed.

“Well?”

“Well,” said Lady Marshfield, “don’t you think you were rather foolish to fall in love with a woman of her reputation?”

“Good Heavens!” he cried, starting up. “No, that can’t be the truth! Gemma cannot be the notorious Contessa Funaro!”

“If you doubt me, go out to Italy again and make inquiries,” the eccentric old lady answered calmly.

“But the Countess Funaro has the most unenviable reputation of any person in Italy. I’ve heard hundreds of extraordinary stories regarding her.”

“And the latest is your own interesting experience—eh!”

“I—I really can’t believe it,” Armytage said, dumbfounded.

“No; I don’t expect you do. She’s so amazingly clever that she can cause her dupes to believe in her absolutely. Her face is so innocent that one would never believe her capable of such heartless actions as are attributed to her.”

“But what experience have you personally had of her?” he inquired, still dubious. He knew that this elderly woman of the world was utterly unscrupulous.

“I met her in Venice last year,” her ladyship said. “All Venice was acquainted with her deliciously original countenance. Her notoriety was due to her pretty air of astonishment, the purity of her blue eyes, and the expression of chaste innocence which she can assume when it so pleases her—an expression which contrasts powerfully with her true nature, shameless creature that she is.”

“And are you absolutely positive that the woman I love as Gemma Fanetti is none other than the Contessa Funaro, the owner of the great historic Funaro palace in Florence, and the Villa Funaro at Ardenza?”

“I have already told you all I know.”

“But you have given me no proof.”

“I merely express satisfaction that you have been wise enough to relinquish all thought of marrying her.”

“I really can’t believe that this is the truth. How did you know she was in London?”

“I was told so by one who knows her. She has been staying at the Victoria,” her ladyship answered.

“I don’t believe what you say,” he cried wildly. “No, I won’t believe it. There is some mistake.”

“She has left the hotel,” Lady Marshfield said, fixing her cold eyes on him. “Follow her, and charge her with the deception.”

“It is useless. I am confident that Gemma is not this notorious Contessa.”

Her ladyship made a gesture of impatience, saying—“I have no object in deceiving you, Charles. I merely think it right that you should be made aware of the truth, hideous as it is.”

“But is it the truth?” he demanded fiercely. “There is absolutely no proof. I certainly never knew her address in Florence, but at Livorno she lived in a little flat on the Passeggio. If she were the Contessa, she would certainly have lived in her own beautiful villa at Ardenza, only a mile away.”

“She may have let it for the season,” his hostess quickly observed.

“The Countess Funaro is certainly wealthy enough, if reports be true, without seeking to obtain a paltry two or three thousand lire for her villa,” he said.

“She no doubt had some object in living quietly as she did, especially as she was hiding her identity from you.”

“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he declared, as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him for some ulterior object. “Until I have proof of Gemma’s perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word against her,” he declared decisively.

“You desire proof?” the old woman said, her wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again met his. “Well, you shall have it at once;” and, rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. “Read the words upon this,” she said, with an evil gleam in her vengeful gaze.

He took the picture with trembling hands, and read the following, written boldly across the base:—

“T’invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sarà sempre presente la mia efige, che ti obbligherà a ricordarmi. Tua aff.—Gemma Luisa Funaro.”

The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from the same negative as the one at that moment upon the table in his chambers. The handwriting was undoubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life.

Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. Indeed, it was a hideous truth.