William Le Queux (continued 5)
Reading edition
“On that day perfect happiness will come to me,” he said fervently. “I love you, Gemma, more deeply than ever man loved woman.”
“And I, too, Nino, love you with all my heart, with all my soul.”
Their lips met again in a fierce caress, their hands clasped tightly. He looked into her clear eyes, bright with unshed tears, and saw fear and determination, truth and honesty mirrored therein. Her tiny hand trembled in his, and then for very joy she suddenly burst into a flood of emotion.
“When shall we leave for England?” he asked at last, his strong arm still about her waist.
“In a couple of days. I have only waited here for you to join me,” she said, drying her eyes. “Life without you, Nino, is impossible.”
“So within a week we shall be in London?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Soon, very soon, I hope, I may be free. But I have a task before me—one that is difficult and desperate. In order to secure your safety, and my own freedom from the hateful bonds which have fettered me these last two years, I am compelled to resort to strategy, to deception deep and cunning, the smallest revelation of which would wreck all our hopes.”
“How?”
“Exposure of my plans would cost me my life,” she answered, her face white and set, a shudder running through her slight frame.
“Your life?” he echoed, still mystified. “One would think you feared assassination!”
She made no answer, but, pale to her lips, she held her breath. The flunkey in blue re-entered the room, bearing a telegram upon a salver. His mistress took it and, tearing open the folded pale drab paper, read its contents.
“No reply,” she said; and the man, bowing, withdrew. “Nino,” she exclaimed in a voice of deep earnestness when the servant had gone, “you may think it extraordinary, but for your sake, because I love no other man but yourself, I have resolved to risk my life and free myself. This telegram makes it imperative that we should leave again for England to-night. You have shown trust in me; you do not believe all the idle tales gossips have littered. I love you, Nino. If I prove victor, I gain your affection, and happiness always with you. If I lose, then I die, unwillingly, but nevertheless in the confidence that to the end you trusted me.”
“No, no!” he cried fiercely. “You shall not die! You shall never be taken from me! I adore you, Gemma! God knows I love you, darling!”
“Then you will never doubt me—never!” she cried, clinging closely to him, and raising her beautiful face to his. “You will not doubt me even if, to gain my end, I feign love for another. To him, my kisses shall be Judas-kisses, my smiles mockery, my lips venom, my embrace the chilling embrace of death. Hear me?” she cried wildly. “I go to England with a purpose—a vendetta complete and terrible which I will accomplish by hatred—or, failing that, by love. Both will be equally fatal.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
On the Night Wind.
“You still wear your ring, I see,” Malvano exclaimed with a merry twinkle in his eyes one morning a fortnight later, while Gemma was sitting at breakfast at Lyddington with Nenci and his wife. The thin-faced, black-haired man had rejoined his wife suddenly a few days before, and since Gemma had returned they had formed quite a merry quartette. She had satisfactorily explained her sudden disappearance, and had concocted a clever story of complications regarding her estate to account for her journey to Italy. Both men, knowing she was “wanted” by the Italian police, marvelled at her audacity in going back and her adroitness in evading arrest.
“I don’t always wear the ring,” she answered, raising her hand and contemplating it.
“Let me see,” exclaimed Nenci, who was seated beside her.
In response she handed it to him. It was unusually large for a lady, but of antique design. In the centre was a large oval turquoise, around which were set two rows of diamonds, all of beautiful colour and lustre, while the gold which encircled the finger was much thicker than usual, the whole forming a rather massive but extremely handsome ornament.
Nenci held it for a moment, admiring it with the eye of a connoisseur, for by trade he was a jeweller, although he had performed, among other duties, those of waiter in a City restaurant. He declared at once that the diamonds were dirty beneath their settings, and, rising from the table, scrutinised it closely at the window.
“I’ll clean it for you to-day, if you like,” he said, when he returned to his seat. “It is very dull and dusty.” She thanked him, and he placed it beside his plate. “Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor suddenly, with a glance full of meaning.
“That was the marriage ring, wasn’t it?”
Nenci glanced across at him quickly and frowned—a gesture of displeasure which Gemma failed to notice.
“Yes,” she answered rather harshly; “it was the marriage ring—if you like to so term it. I scarcely ever wear it, because it brings back too many painful memories. The bond has been galling enough—Heaven knows!”
“I thought you had no remorse. You always declared you had none,” Nenci remarked. “But since you’ve known that confounded lover of yours you’ve been a changed woman.”
“Changed for the better, I hope,” she retorted. “Do you think it possible that I can wear that ring without remembering a certain night in Livorno—the night when all my evil fortune fell upon me?”
Nenci laughed superciliously.
“Come,” he said. “You’re growing sentimental. That’s the worst of being love-sick. When a woman of genius loves, she always throws common sense to the winds.”
Her brows contracted for an instant, but, too discreet to exhibit annoyance, she merely joined his laughter, and, with skilful tact so characteristic of her, answered—“Ah, my dear Lionello, you seem to have forgotten our old Tuscan saying, ‘L’amore avvicina gli uomini agli angeli ed al Cielo; poichè il paradiso scende con l’amore in noi.’”
“She’s had you there,” exclaimed the Doctor merrily. “Gemma isn’t the person upon whom to work off witticisms.” As he sat at table, Malvano looked the very picture of good health and spirits, ruddy, well-shaven, and spruce in his rough tweed riding-coat and gaiters, for, the roads being heavy and wet, he had resolved to ride his round that morning instead of driving. Only the day previous he had been attending upon the customers at the Bonciani, his ears ever open, and, arriving back at Lyddington by the last train from London, he had been a long time closeted with Nenci, prior to going to bed. The two men had held a long consultation, the nature of which Gemma was unable to determine, but it was evident from her close observation of their demeanour that morning that they had resolved upon some line of immediate action.
La Funaro was now playing a dangerous game.
Calm, silent, watchful, ever ready to listen to their nefarious plans, and even making suggestions of deeper cunning and a vengeance more terrible, she had remained there acting a double part with a skill that few other women could accomplish. But her previous training in the wiles of diplomacy and espionage under the crafty, far-seeing Montelupo now held her in good stead. She could conceal all her woman’s pity and forbearance, all her repugnance at the terrible plans which were so calmly discussed, and with them grow enthusiastic at the thought of what was to follow. Hers was a strange personality, a curious blending of the grave with the gay. The mask she wore as a heartless, abandoned woman was absolutely without a flaw.
That day Nenci spent most of his hours in the Doctor’s study, the room wherein no one was allowed to enter. Sallow-faced, unshaven, wild-haired, he was so striking a figure that the Doctor had advised him not to go into the village, as his presence would at once be remarked. Therefore, when Malvano was absent, he amused himself in chatting to the assistant at work making up mixtures in the dark little room beyond the surgery, in reading in the room, half-study half-laboratory, which Malvano reserved to himself, or in strolling about the extensive grounds walled in against the vulgar gaze.
Gemma that day idled over magazines and newspapers in the morning-room until luncheon, when the Doctor came in, cold and half famished, with an appetite which did justice to his truly British appearance. Afterwards she passed the afternoon in desultory gossip with Mrs Nenci, while the two men went to smoke; and in the evening, when coffee was served in the drawing-room, she played and sang to them “Duorme, Carmé,” “Surriento bello!” the humorous “Don Saverio,” and other pieces, while Malvano, in his usually buoyant spirits, fetched his mandolino and accompanied her, until the sweet music and the passionate words brought back to each of them memories of their own fair, far-off land.
About ten, Mrs Nenci and Gemma retired, and that night the woman, whom, all Italy knew as “La Funaro,” knelt in the silence of her chamber long and earnestly before her ivory crucifix, praying for courage and for release. Meanwhile, the two men proceeded to the Doctor’s study, turning the key in the door after them. The small place, with its shutters closed and barred, smelt overpoweringly of pungent chemicals, the centre table being laden with bottles, test-tubes, retorts, a crucible beneath which a small spirit-lamp was burning, and a host of sundries, which plainly showed that experiments were in progress. At the wall opposite was a side-table upon which a small vice had been fixed, while beside it lay several files and other tools.
Both men threw off their coats and turned up their shirt-cuffs. Malvano taking his seat in the centre of his chemical appliances, while his companion commenced work at the small side-table.
Nenci was smoking a cigarette when they entered, but at sign of the Doctor at once extinguished it.
“Have you given Gemma back her ring?” Malvano inquired as they sat down to work. The reason the Doctor always locked himself within that room was evident. He was making experiments in secret.
“Yes; I gave it her just before dinner,” the other answered.
“You cleaned it—eh?” the Doctor said, with a grim smile.
“Yes,” the other replied briefly.
“It seems a pity—a great pity!” Malvano exclaimed in a tone of regret. “Is there no other way?”
“None,” Nenci answered firmly. “She knows too much. Besides, I have suspicions.”
“Of what?”
“That she may play us false,” the sallow-faced man replied. “Remember, she still loves that man Armytage—the devil take him!”
“Well,” Malvano sighed, “it’s the only way, I suppose; but it’s hard—very hard on a woman whose life has been wrecked as hers has.”
“Misericordia! My dear fellow,” cried Nenci impatiently. “Surely you won’t turn chicken-hearted after all this time? You’ve never shown the white feather yet.”
The doctor remained silent, and turning in his chair, bent over the small crucible beneath which the blue flame was burning; while his companion, casting a keen half-suspicious glance in his direction, also turned to the small vice fixed to his table and commenced work.
A long time elapsed in almost complete silence, so intent were both on what they were doing. Once—only once—did Malvano refer again to the subject of Gemma’s ring.
“Is she actually wearing it now?” he inquired.
“She did at dinner, I noticed,” Nenci answered. “But whether she wears her rings at night, I don’t know,” he laughed.
“Isn’t it—well—dangerous?”
“Dangerous! Not at all,” his companion replied impatiently. “She suspects nothing, absolutely nothing.”
Again they lapsed into unbroken silence.
Fully an hour went by, when Nenci rising, still in his shirt-sleeves, folded his arms, and exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction and confidence—
“At last, my dear fellow! I’ve worked it out completely. Failure has become absolutely impossible.” Malvano, still seated in his chair, leaned back and contemplated with admiration the object which his companion had placed before him—an exquisite little marble bust of King Humbert of Italy. It was only about eighteen inches high, but a faithful and beautifully executed copy of that celebrated head by the renowned Pisan sculptor, Fontacchiotti, which is so prominent a figure in the centre of the great reception hall of the Quirinal at Rome. Plaster replicas of this bust can be bought everywhere throughout Italy for half a franc, and are to be found in most houses of the loyal, while larger ones stand in every court of justice. But this miniature reproduction before the Doctor was really an admirable work of art, one such as connoisseur would admire.
Nenci had not chiselled it, but had apparently been doing something to its small base of polished malachite. The hand that had succeeded in reproducing the features so exactly was without doubt a master-hand. On the table where the sallow-faced man had been working stood two other busts exactly similar in every detail, both in little cases of polished wood, lined with crimson velvet, and each bearing the royal monogram in gilt upon its base, exactly similar to the one in the Quirinal.
“It’s excellent. The Gobbo has certainly turned them out marvellously well,” the Doctor observed.
“He’s a genius,” the other said enthusiastically. “The reproduction is so exact that detection is absolutely impossible. Look!” And taking up a photograph of a miniature bust standing upon a carved shelf against a frescoed wall, they both compared it with the one before them. “Do you see that small chip in the base?” Nenci said, pointing to the picture. “The Gobbo has even reproduced that.”
“A wonderful piece of work,” Malvano acquiesced. “Very neat, and very pretty.”
“After it leaves our hands it won’t want many servants to keep it dusted,” his companion observed grimly. “You see, the base being circular is made to move,” he added, taking the little ornament in his hand. “You twist it slightly—so, and the thing is done. You see those two scratches across the stone. The base must be so turned as to join them. And then to the very instant—well—” And he broke off without concluding his sentence.
“It will strike the half-hour, eh?” the Doctor suggested with a laugh.
The other raised his shoulders and outspread his palms. Then, regarding his handiwork with the keenest satisfaction, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and, leaning against the mantelshelf, gaily hummed the popular Neapolitan chorus—
“Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà Mmiez’ ’o mare nu scoglio nce sta! Tutte venene a bevere ccà, Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà.”
The Doctor, with fingers stained yellow by the acids he had been mixing, the fumes of which filled the small den almost to suffocation, took up the beautiful little bust and examined its green polished base with critical eye, turning it over and over, and weighing it carefully in his hand.
“Devilish cunningly contrived,” he said. “It’s a pity it must be sacrificed. But I suppose it must.”
“Of course,” Nenci said quickly. “We must complete our experiments and ascertain that it actually strikes true. Is it quiet enough yet to try, do you think?” Malvano rose. The trousers he wore were old and burned brown where corrosive liquids had fallen upon them, his hair was ruffled, and his face dirty, as if smoke-blackened.
“I hope the thing won’t create too much fuss,” he said in an apprehensive tone.
“Leave all that to me,” his companion answered confidently; and taking the bust, he carefully unscrewed its malachite base, revealing a cavity wherein rested a small square receptacle, oblong and deep, something of the shape of a large-sized snuff-box. It was secured in its place by two springs, which, when released, allowed the box to fall out. Taking it up and opening it, he said to his companion—
“Here you are. Fill it up, while I arrange the tube.”
Then, while the Doctor carefully filled the box with some greyish-white powder from a tiny green glass bottle on the table, Nenci took up a tube of thin glass about an inch long, one of the two or three which Malvano had just filled with acid and hermetically sealed by the aid of his spirit-lamp and blow-pipe. This he carefully inserted in the opening, afterwards replacing the closed box of grey compound, securing it deeply in its place by the two little steel springs.
Again he placed it upon the table, and, retreating a few steps, stood admiring it.
“The reproductions are all absolutely perfect,” he observed. “We’ve only now to prove that our calculations are correct. Come, let’s go. If anybody meets us, they’ll think you’ve been called out to some urgent case. Therefore we’re safe enough.”
“Very well,” the Doctor agreed; and both put on their coats and went out, Nenci with the bust covered carefully beneath the long ulster he assumed in the hall.
Noiselessly they let themselves out by the servants’ entrance, crossed the large paved yard to the stables, and, finding a spade, the Doctor hid it beneath his overcoat. Then, crossing the lawn, they passed through a gap in the boundary fence, and was soon skirting a high hedge-row, proceeding towards the open country, crossing field after field until about twenty minutes later they paused at a lonely spot. The place where they halted was so dark that they could scarcely see one another, but the mossy, marshy ground was soft beneath their feet; therefore the Doctor, knowing the country well, suggested that this was the spot where the experiment should take place. His companion at once acquiesced, and the Doctor, speaking in a low undertone, drove his spade deep into the earth, and worked away digging a hole, although he could scarce see anything in that pitch darkness.
Presently Nenci, placing the bust upon the ground, boldly struck a match, and by its fickle light ascertained the depth of the hole. Malvano was still working away, fearful lest they should be discovered, the perspiration dropping from his brow in great beads.
“I think that’s deep enough,” he said after some minutes had elapsed. Then, striking another vesta, he glanced intently at his watch to ascertain the exact time. He handed the Doctor the matches, asking him to strike another, and by its aid held the bust upside down and moved the base very carefully round. When at last he had placed it at the exact point, he knelt and slowly lowered it into the hole which had been dug. Both men, working like moles in the dark, quickly replaced the earth, Nenci stamping it down with his feet. At risk of detection—for a lighted match can be seen a long way on a dark night—they struck two more vestas in order that they might the more completely hide the beautiful little work of art upon which Nenci had been engaged so many hours that day.
When it had been entirely covered, and the ploughed land rearranged, both men retreated rather hurriedly across a couple of fields, and at an old weather-worn stile stood and waited, peering back into the darkness.
The chimes of a distant church sounded over the hills; then the dead silence of the night fell again unbroken, save for the mournful sighing of the wind. For fully five minutes they waited, uttering no word.
“It’s failed,” Malvano at last exclaimed disappointedly, in an excited half-whisper.
“I tell you it can’t fail,” the other answered quickly. “I ought to know something of such contrivances.” Malvano muttered some words expressive of doubt, but scarce had they left his lips when all of a sudden there was a blood-red flash, a loud report, and tons of earth and stones shot skyward in the darkness, some falling unpleasantly close to them.
“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the Doctor. “It’s terrible! By Heaven it is!”
“Nothing could withstand that,” Nenci observed enthusiastically, with an air of complete satisfaction. “I told you it was absolutely deadly.”
The report had caused the earth to tremble where they stood, and, borne upon the night wind, had no doubt been heard for miles around. Losing no time, they sped quickly forward towards the spot, and there in the gloom discerned that a great oak in the vicinity had been shattered, its branches hanging torn and broken, while at the spot where the little bust had been buried, was a wide, deep, funnel-shaped hole. Some great hazel bushes in the vicinity had been torn up by the roots and hurled aside, while on every hand was ample evidence of the terrific and irresistible force of the explosion.
“The strength of the compound is far greater than I ever imagined! It’s frightful?” exclaimed the Doctor, gazing around half fearfully. “But let’s get back, or some one, attracted by the report, may be astir. What will people think when it’s discovered in the morning?”
“They’ll only believe that lightning has done it,” Nenci said airily, as, thrusting their hands into their overcoat pockets they retraced their steps, bending against the icy wind sweeping across the open land.
In passing back across the lawn both were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to detect that behind the privet hedge was a crouching figure, and that the person so concealed had probably watched all their mysterious movements and taken the keenest interest in their extraordinary midnight experiment.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Trick of a Trickster.
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’hôte, 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.
She glanced quickly at the name, then rising slowly, answered—
“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 Sèvres 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.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Entrapped.
As all drew back aghast and terrified from the little face of carved stone, Gemma, who had tried the door only to discover the truth of Tristram’s appalling assertion, dashed instantly back to the table, and, regardless of the imminent risk she ran, took the small image in her hands.
“No, no!” they cried with one voice, haunted by the fear that at any second it might explode and blow them out of all recognition. “Don’t touch it! don’t touch it!”
“On the night when the two men completed their hellish invention, I watched through the shutters unseen,” she cried. “I saw Nenci explain how this deadly thing was charged, and the mode in which it was set. See!” In an instant all had grouped round her, as, turning the bust upside down, she eagerly examined it beneath the shaded lamp. The scratch running across the malachite base and up the outer edge of the removable portion was, she saw, contiguous to a mark higher up. Nenci had turned the circular base until the ends of the almost imperceptible line had joined.
Another instant and nothing could save them.
With trembling hands Gemma grasped it, as Nenci had done on the night when she had watched, and with a quick wrench tried to turn it back.
It would not move!
Next second, however, she twisted it in the opposite direction. As she did so there was a harsh grating sound, as of steel cutting into stone, a crack, as though some strong spring had snapped; and then all knew that the mechanism of the devilish invention had been disordered, and the frightful catastrophe thereby averted.
She bent down, opening Nenci’s bag, and took therefrom a second bust, exclaiming—
“He tricked us cleverly. Fortunately, however, I detected the difference in the markings of that green stone, or ere this we might each one of us have been dead.” Then, placing the two busts side by side, she pointed out the difference in the vein of the malachite which had attracted her attention, and thus caused her to make the astounding declaration which had held them petrified.
“You’ve saved us!” the Gobbo cried, addressing her.
“These men must not escape,” Gemma cried determinedly. “They shall not! Our lives have been endangered by their villainous treachery, and they shall not evade punishment.”
Chapter Thirty.
“I Bear Witness!”
Next morning Gemma stood at the window of her bedroom, looking down upon Northumberland Avenue. She had breakfasted unusually early, and had chosen a dark-green dress trimmed with narrow astrachan—one of her Paris-made gowns which she knew fitted her perfectly and suited her complexion. She had stood before the long mirror in the wardrobe for some minutes, and, with a pride that may always be forgiven in a woman, regarded herself with satisfaction. They knew how to make a woman look her best in the Rue de la Paix.
The recollection of the previous night was, in the light of morning, horrifying. After leaving Sussex Square, she had stopped her cab at the telegraph office opposite Charing Cross Station, the office being open day and night, and had sent a long and urgent message to Rome explaining the situation. Already a reply reposed in the pocket of her gown, but it was unsatisfactory. The private secretary had wired back that the Marquis was away at his high-up, antique castle of Montelupo, “the Mountain of the Wolf,” between Empoli and Signa, in Tuscany. She therefore knew that many hours must elapse ere her cipher message was delivered to him. Even his reply could not reach her for four hours or so after it had been despatched from Empoli. But after sending the message to Rome, she had also sent one to Armytage at Aldworth Court, and was now awaiting his arrival.
Her hands were cold and nervous, her eyes heavy and weary, and her face deathly pale and haggard, for she had slept but little that night. She saw plainly that all her desperate efforts to free herself had been in vain. There had been a hitch somewhere, or that night the whole of that assembly at Lady Marshfield’s would have been arrested by detectives from Scotland Yard, at the instigation of Count Castellani, acting under telegraphic orders from Rome. Italy would thus have been able to rid herself of as desperate a gang of malefactors as ever stood in the dock of a criminal court. She had kept faith with the Marquis Montelupo, her master, and, in order to gain her freedom, had furnished the Ministry with full details of the plot. Her freedom of action had been promised her in exchange for this information, but with the stipulation that the conspirators must be arrested. The Marquis, cunning and far-seeing, was well aware that this would ensure greater secrecy, and hold her as his agent until the very end.
No arrest had, however, taken place. All her plans had failed utterly, and, in a paroxysm of despair, she told herself that she was still, even at that moment, as far off gaining her freedom as ever she had been. Her tiny white hands clenched themselves in despair.
“I love him!” she murmured hoarsely. “I love him; but Fate always intervenes—always. Shall I never be released from this terrible thraldom? I pray day and night, and yet—”
She paused. Her eyes fell upon the small ivory crucifix standing upon a pile of books beside her bed. She sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and her thin white lips moved in fervent prayer.
Suddenly, while her head was still bent upon her breast in penitence, as she craved forgiveness for violating the oath she had taken to these men who sought her death, a master-key was placed in the door and the chambermaid entered.
“Pardon, Madame,” the girl exclaimed in French, drawing back as soon as she saw her, “I thought you had gone out. A gentleman has just been shown to your sitting-room, and is waiting.”
“A gentleman!” Gemma repeated blankly, rising to her feet. Then she recollected. It was her lover who had come in response to her telegram. What could she tell him?
“Very well,” she answered. “I’ll see him at once;” and as the girl withdrew, she stood looking at herself despairingly in the mirror. Again she dare not tell him anything. She was still beneath a double thraldom of guilt.
With both her hands she pushed back the mass of gold-brown hair from the pale fevered brows, sighing; then, rigid and erect, walked down the corridor to her own sitting-room. Her heart beating wildly, but with a glad smile upon her face, she entered.
Instantly she halted. Her look of pleasure gave place to one of hatred. Her visitor was not Charles Armytage, but the man who, only twelve hours before, had secured her and her companions within that room with the terrible engine of death in their midst. It was Lionello Nenci, who stood with his back to the window, his hands idly in his pockets. His sallow face was that of a man haunted by terror, and driven to desperation. His cheeks were pale beneath their southern bronze, and his black eyes glittered with unnatural fire as he advanced towards her.
“You!” she gasped in withering contempt. “You! The mean despicable cur who sought to kill us!”
“Yes!” he answered unabashed. “Shut the door. I want to speak to you.”
In involuntary obedience she closed the door, and the portière fell behind her.
“I should have thought, after your infamous conduct last night, you would not ever dare to face me again,” she cried in scorn. “Such treachery is only worthy of gaol-birds and traitors.”
“You deserved it,” he laughed roughly. “You are one of the latter. It was you,” he went on mercilessly—“you, with your innocent-looking face, who gave the whole plot away, who exposed us to the Ministry, and put the English police upon us; you who sought our arrest and punishment. It is but what was to be expected of such a woman as yourself, the spy and mistress of Montelupo.”
“Mistress!” she echoed, in an instant frenzy of passion. “I’m not his mistress. I swear I’ve never been. You know that’s a foul lie!”
“Every one in Italy believes it,” he said, with a brutal laugh. “When they know that you were implicated in the plot, and gave it away to him, it will confirm their suspicions.”
She looked at him, intense hatred in her glance.
“And you have come here to tell me this!” she cried. “Having failed in your dastardly attempt last night, you come here to-day to taunt me with the past!”
“No. The reason I’ve called is to calmly explain the position. The police are already upon us, but the Doctor and Romanelli have left London. I unfortunately, am unable, for I’ve no money,” he added, in a whining tone. “I’ve come to throw myself upon your generosity; to ask you for some.”
“You wish me, the woman whom you denounce as a spy and traitor—whom you and your infamous companions endeavoured to kill—you ask me to furnish you with funds so that you may escape the punishment you deserve?” she cried in scorn, amazed at his boldness. “I shall not stir a finger to save you,” she answered promptly.
“Come,” he said. “There’s no time to lose if I’m to escape. Remember, I’m the man for whom the police of Europe have been searching in vain these last two years, ever since I escaped from Elba; and if I’m again to evade them, it will be expensive. If you’re not prepared to sacrifice yourself, then give me money and let us part. You are rich, and can well afford it,” he added. “Come. Take my advice, and let the whole thing end here. Assist me this, the last time, and I swear to you that I’ll say nothing implicating you, even if afterwards I’m arrested.”
“If I give you money, it is on the understanding that you will not in future levy blackmail,” she said, eyeing the cringing man before her with contempt. “Recollect that any communication from you will result in your immediate arrest. You know, one word from me at the Ministry and the police will follow you, wherever you may be.”
“I agree,” he cried eagerly.
She drew from her purse three English notes, each for five pounds, and handing them to him said—
“This is all the money I have at the moment, without drawing a cheque.”
“It’s not enough—not half enough,” he declared in a tone of dissatisfaction, glancing at the clock. “There’s little time to lose. A North German Lloyd boat sails from Southampton for New York this afternoon, and the train leaves Waterloo at noon. This money won’t even buy my passage and necessaries.”
She reflected for an instant, and glanced down at her fragile hands. An instant later, in sheer desperation, she cried—
“Then take my rings!” And twisting them one by one from her fingers, including the antique one of turquoise and diamonds, she laid them, together with her brooch, on the little writing-table where they were standing. “They’re worth at least five thousand francs,” she said. “Take them, sell them, do what you like with them, but never let us meet again.”
Eagerly he took up one—a beautiful diamond half-hoop ring, and glancing at it in admiration, was about to place it in his vest-pocket, when there came a loud rap at the door, and the message-boy, shouting her hotel number, ushered in two men.
Nenci turned quickly towards the door, and shrank back in terror and dismay.
The men who entered were Tristram and Armytage. The face of the latter was dark with determination. He had not expected to find Gemma with a stranger; moreover, the fact that her rings and brooch lay upon the table between her and her visitor puzzled him.
“Ah, dearest!” she cried, rushing towards him, her nervous hands outstretched. “You have come back to me at last—at last!”
Without taking her proffered hands, he looked straight into the sallow, evil face of the Italian. Nenci boldly met his gaze.
“This is the scoundrel who, as I’ve just told you, endeavoured last night to destroy Gemma, myself, and several other persons at Lady Marshfield’s?” Tristram cried, glaring at the black-haired inventor of the terrible engine of death.
“And this,” retorted Nenci, pointing at the Captain—“this man is a murderer! It was he who killed Vittorina Rinaldo!”
“You’re a liar?” Tristram answered, his face livid and set. “The evidence against me is circumstantial enough, perhaps, to convict me of the crime, but I am innocent—absolutely innocent. I myself was the victim of a dastardly plot. Little dreaming of what was intended, I escorted her from Leghorn to London, and thus unwittingly myself created circumstances which were so suspicious as to fasten the terrible guilt upon me. But I declare before Heaven that I’m in ignorance of both the motive and the secret means by which the crime was accomplished!”
The outlaw laughed a harsh, dry laugh. His demeanour at the first moment of their entry into the room had been one of fear. Now he was fiercely defiant, and affected amusement at their demeanour.
“If you can prove your innocence, then do so,” he said grimly. “According to the papers, you left the cab, entered the bar, spoke to your accomplice, the Major, whoever he was, and then escaped by the back entrance.”
“True,” replied the King’s Messenger. “But my hurried flight had nothing whatever to do with the murder of Vittorina, nor did my conversation with the Major bear upon it in any way whatever. I merely expressed surprise at meeting him there after leaving him at the station; and he, too, was surprised to see me. Then, while in the bar, I suddenly recollected that, in the hurry of alighting from the train, I had left in the carriage a despatch-bag given me by one of the messengers of the Embassy in Paris to convey to London; and knowing that the train would be shunted out, perhaps down to the depot at Nine Elms, I made all speed back to Charing Cross, where I found that a porter had already discovered it, and taken it to the lost-property office. I had no fear of Vittorina’s safety, for I had already given the cabman the address in Hammersmith, and every second was of consequence in recovering my lost despatches.”
“But the Major’s photograph was discovered in Vittorina’s bag,” Nenci cried in a tone of disbelief. “How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know. To me, that fact is a mystery, although I have since entertained a suspicion that the Major, when he met me, must have been aware that the girl’s life was to be taken. He called upon me afterwards, and we were both afraid of arrest upon circumstantial evidence. I was aware that he was implicated in some shady transactions in the City, for he confessed to me his intention of leaving England secretly.”
“Your story is ingenious enough,” Nenci replied, “but it will never convince a jury of your innocence. You can’t clear yourself. It’s absolutely impossible.”
“One moment,” interrupted Armytage, who, standing beside his well-beloved, had been intently watching the face of this desperate malefactor during this argument—“one moment,” he said coolly. “This visit is a very fortuitous circumstance. A face such as yours, one never forgets—never. We have met before.”
“I think not, signore,” the other answered, smiling with that ineffable politeness which so often nauseates. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, save that I presume you are the affianced husband to the Signora Contessa.”
“But I know you, although it isn’t much of a pleasure,” Armytage answered quickly, in a voice that showed that he was not to be trifled with. “You declare that we’ve never met before. Well, I’ll just refresh your memory,” he went on, slowly and deliberately. “One night, the night previous to leaving for Italy, while passing the Criterion on my way from the Junior United Service to the Alhambra, I saw a cab stop and my friend Captain Tristram alight and enter the bar, when almost next moment a man brushed past me. Beneath the electric light I saw his face distinctly. I saw him raise his hat, mount the step of the cab, shake hands cordially with the girl sitting inside the vehicle, and at once dart away. I didn’t enter the Criterion, as I had an appointment with a man at the Alhambra, and was late. Next morning, however, when in the train between London and Dover, on my way to Italy, I read in the paper that the girl I had seen had been murdered.” He paused for an instant to watch the effect of his words; then declared, in a voice which betrayed no hesitation.
“The man who brushed past me and mounted on the steps of the cab was you! It was you who killed her!”
The colour died from Nenci’s face. He tried to speak. His lips moved, but no sound escaped them. This unexpected denunciation fell upon him as a blow; it crushed him and held him speechless, spell-bound.
“Is it really true?” cried the Captain, open-mouthed, as astonished as the murderer himself.
“This man before you was the murderer. To that I bear witness!” Armytage replied.
“She was going to his house at Hammersmith,” Tristram said, perplexed. “There must have been some motive in killing her before she arrived there.”
“Of course. It’s easy to discern that such a crime allayed all suspicions. No one would dream that the man calmly waiting at home expecting her arrival was actually the man who murdered her.”
The dark-faced outlaw, watching the two men with covert glance, made a swift movement towards the door. But Tristram was too quick for him, and springing forward, placed his back against it, saying—
“No, when you leave this room you will be accompanied by a constable. It isn’t safe to trust you out alone.” Then, turning to his old college friend, he added, “What you’ve just said, Armytage, has renewed life within me, old fellow. I knew I was the victim of some foul plot or other, but I never suspected this man of being the actual assassin. His character’s desperate enough, as witness his mean, dastardly attempt upon us last night; but I never dreamed it possible for a man to commit murder so neatly as he did.”
“You are determined to keep me here?” Nenci cried, his eyes glaring savagely like an animal brought to bay.
“I am determined to give you up to the police,” Tristram answered. “Remember, I am suspected, and I now intend to clear myself.”
“And risk arrest for the conspiracy.”
“There’s no proof that I was ever associated with you,” the Captain answered. “The word of a murderer isn’t worth much.”
“You are prepared for the revelations that I can make?”
“I’m prepared for anything so long as you meet with your deserts,” the Captain responded.
For an instant the wretched man, his sallow face haunted by a look of unutterable dread, glanced from one to the other. Then, convinced that all were determined, and realising that escape was now utterly impossible, he stepped forward, and, snatching up from the table the antique ring set with the turquoise and diamonds, with a quick movement slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand. They watched him in wonder.
“You think to have a magnificent revenge,” he cried, glaring wildly at them. “But I will cheat you yet. Watch!” And with the thumb and finger of his right hand he pressed the large turquoise.
From beneath the ring there escaped a dark-red bead of blood.
“Go!” he shrieked hoarsely, his face haggard, deathlike. “Go, call the police! Denounce me, do your worst, but you will only take my lifeless body. May it be of service to you. This you intended should be a fine coup of vengeance. But I’ll cheat you yet! I’ll cheat you—I—”
“Ring, and call in the police,” Armytage suggested.
“Useless! useless!” the wretched man gasped, his face drawn and distorted as, clutching the back of the chair, he stood swaying forward slightly. “Can’t you see that all your carefully planned revenge is unavailing?”
They regarded him in blank astonishment. Even as they looked his face changed, and he was seized by convulsions which shook him from head to foot.
“Can’t you see?” he cried wildly. “I’ve cheated you, and I’m dying. On my finger is the death-ring—the pretty finger ornament which, when pressed, punctures the skin beneath and injects a poison which is swift, and to which there is no known antidote.”
“Heavens!” cried the Captain, glancing at the ring the assassin had assumed. “Now that I remember, Vittorina wore a ring exactly similar to that! Upon her hand after death was a strange discoloration which puzzled the doctors. Then she was murdered by a simple pressure of the hand, which inflicted a puncture beneath the ring, and the latter, being irremovable on account of the post-mortem swelling, the cause of death remained concealed. Truly the means by which she was killed were as cunning and swift as the manner in which the crime was accomplished.”
The haggard, white-faced culprit stood swaying forward, holding the chair, his black eyes starting from his head, his parched tongue protruding, his lips drawn, his whole appearance horrible. In those moments of intense agony a jumble of half-incoherent words, like the gibbering of an idiot, escaped him; yet from them it seemed as though he were living his whole evil life again, and that scenes long since past flashed before him, only to be succeeded by this final one—more tragic, more terrible, more agonising than them all.
“I told you that the police should never take me!” he gasped with extreme difficulty. “Montelupo’s bloodhounds have already scented me to-day, but I’ve tricked them as I’ve tricked you. I’m not afraid of death. I’m no coward. See!”
And again he grasped the ring, and, grinding his teeth, pressed the tiny steel point therein concealed deep into the flesh.
Then he gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, meant to be derisive, but sounding horrible in combination with the death-rattle in his throat. His life was fast ebbing. Great beads of perspiration rolled off his white brow. Again he tried to speak, but the single word “Vittorina,” hoarse and low, was the only one that passed his twitching lips. His bright, glassy eyes, still flashing a murderous hatred in the agony of death, were fixed immovably upon his accuser, when suddenly, almost without warning, he was seized with frightful convulsions, his jaws set, the light died from his face, his legs seemed to give way beneath him, and, reeling, he fell headlong to the floor, carrying the chair with him.
Both men in an instant knelt eagerly beside him.
Tristram quickly loosened his vest, and placed his hand upon his heart. It had already ceased its action.
The subtle Eastern poison—for such it afterwards proved to be—had done its work swiftly, completely. Lionello Nenci—conspirator, murderer, and outlaw, one of the most desperate and dangerous characters that Italy has produced during the past decade, and the miscreant whose arrest had been stipulated by the Marquis Montelupo in his compact with Gemma—was dead.
Le Funaro was free. The terrible thraldom which had compelled her to act as secret agent of the State was for ever ended.
Chapter Thirty One.
Fiori d’Arancio.
Nearly a year had gone by.
The strange suicide of an Italian at the Hotel Victoria had been regarded merely as a tragic incident by readers of newspapers, for no word of the motive which led Nenci to take his life had been allowed to leak out.
To the public, the death of Vittorina still remains one of London’s many mysteries.
In the few brief months that had elapsed, peace, calm and complete, had come to Gemma and to Charles Armytage; for one morning, in the dimly lit old Church of Santa Maria Novella, in Florence, and afterwards at the Office of the British Consul-General in the Via Tornabuoni, they had been made man and wife. Then, for nearly six months, they had travelled in Austria, Switzerland, and Germany, subsequently spending the winter in a furnished villa high up on the olive-clad hill behind Cimiez, where they were visited by Captain Tristram and Carmenilla, who, too, had married, and were spending their honeymoon on the Riviera. At last, when Carnival had come and gone, the season waned, and Nice and Cannes were emptying, they, too, left and returned to the great old Palazza Funaro in Florence.
They had dined tête-à-tête one evening, had strolled arm in arm through these great silent chambers which seemed to speak mutely of the gorgeous pageantry in the days when the Medici had ruled Florence, and entered the room furnished in modern style—the same in which he had a year ago pledged his belief in her.
After the man resplendent in the Funaro livery had brought their coffee, Gemma seated herself upon the settee beside her husband, and, taking up her mandolino, commenced to sing that sweet old Tuscan song he loved so well, which has for its chorus—
“O bello mio adorabile Svenire in se mi par Vorrei fuggirti rapida, Non so come mi far!”
When she had finished, she was silent, as if in hesitation; then, with her clear eyes fixed upon his, exclaimed, in very good English—
“You have trusted me blindly, completely, Nino. You married me in face of all the vile libels which spread from mouth to mouth; yet only to-night am I free to tell you the truth. My story is a strange—a very strange one. Would you like to hear it?”
“Of course, dearest,” he cried eagerly. “You know for months I have longed to know the truth.”
“Then you shall know. I will tell you everything,” she answered. “When I returned here fresh from the convent-school, with unformed girlish ideas, I fancied that the King had slighted my family, one of the oldest in Tuscany, and, finding myself possessor of this place and my father’s fortune, became imbued with a deep, implacable hatred of the monarchy. I lived here with a maiden aunt, took sides with the Republicans, and was induced to secretly join a league of desperate malefactors who had in view the establishment of the long-dreamed-of republic in Italy. In my youthful ignorance, I knew nothing of the means by which they intended to accomplish their object, for their action seemed confined in daubing in black paint upon the walls and pavements of the principal cities such as ‘Down with the royal robbers! Long live the Republic!’ In every town where elections took place the ominous writing on the wall appeared, but the authorities were never able to detect its mysterious authors. With old Lady Marshfield, whose eccentric support of all sorts of wild schemes is well known, and who lived in Florence at that time, I joined this secret league at a meeting held in a house on the Passeggio in Livorno, only a few doors from where I lived when we spent so many sunny hours together. A month later, however, at a reception one night at the British Embassy at Rome, I found myself chatting with the Marquis Montelupo, His Majesty’s Minister for Foreign Affairs. Having obtained my sanction, he next day called upon me; but his attitude had changed, for he accused me of being one of the ringleaders of this mysterious gang, and declared that he would order my arrest if I did not consent to become a spy in the service of the Ministry. He saw, I suppose, that I was young, attractive, and could possibly obtain knowledge of certain secrets which would be of use to him. In vain I pleaded, even upon my knees, but he was obdurate. He intended, he said, to stamp anarchism out of Italy, and told me that to avoid imprisonment and disgrace I must furnish complete reports of the intentions and doings of my associates. At last—well, at last I was forced to consent.”
“You became a spy?”
“Yes,” she answered hoarsely. “I became a mean, despicable traitor, a wretched, soul-tortured woman, whose denunciations caused the arrest and imprisonment of the more dangerous members of the gang, while at the same time, moving in the diplomatic circle in Rome, I furnished constant reports to Montelupo of the feeling existing towards Italy. Friendless and helpless, I became that man’s catspaw. He held me for life or death. He spread reports about me, vile scandals which caused respectable people to shun me, but increased my popularity among the faster set in Rome and Florence, to whom I became known as the Contessa Funaro although I was unmarried. When I protested, he merely laughed in my face, saying that he had done so for political reasons, because it had got abroad that I was in the pay of the Ministry, and if I showed myself to be a gay, heartless woman, instead of a patrician diplomatist, this rumour might be refuted.
“So, compelled to suffer this indignity in silence, and maintain the ignominious part he had allotted to me, I went to Livorno under the assumed name of Fanetti, and attended the constant meetings of the league which were taking place there. Was it any wonder that I should, under such circumstances, actually become an Anarchist? Among the members of this band of secret assassins—an offshoot of the dreaded Mafia—was a girl named Vittorina Rinaldo, who, having ascertained by some means that Nenci and Malvano, then in England, had misappropriated the greater part of the funds of the league, resolved to travel to London and denounce them. This she did, being accompanied thither by Captain Tristram, who had been induced to join us by Lady Marshfield, and, I suppose, with some vague hope that the knowledge thus acquired might be of service to the British Foreign Office. Vittorina and myself had taken the oath at the same meeting of the league, and had on that night received from Nenci, the leader, rings of exactly similar pattern—‘marriage rings,’ he laughingly termed them. Well, you are aware of that scoundrel’s devilish ingenuity. It was he who had made those rings so that by a mere pressure of his hand upon the ring the poison was injected, and the girl’s life taken. You know how cleverly circumstantial evidence was fastened upon her friend. From recent inquiries, I have discovered that Vittorina’s relations on her mother’s side were English, and had a villa up at Como, and that Major Maitland, having a couple of years before appropriated a large sum of money belonging to her, was no doubt an accessory to her death, for he has never been heard of since the night of the crime. Remember that his photograph was found among her possessions, and that he was no doubt with Nenci awaiting her arrival that night at Charing Cross.”
“There seems to be little doubt, from the fact that Nenci gave you a similar ring, that he intended you should share the same fate as Vittorina,” her husband observed, marvelling at her story.
“Certainly he did,” she answered. “Time after time I strove to free myself, from the fetters ever galling me and driving me to desperation, but Montelupo was always inexorable. He loved Vittorina, I afterwards discovered, for it was he who had written that mysterious letter signed ‘Egisto,’ and he was determined to avenge her murderer. Like ourselves he was utterly unaware of the identity of the assassin. Now, however, that you have supplied the information wanting, and the culprit has paid the penalty; now that Malvano, the man who so cleverly acted as secret agent of the Embassy in London, while the same moment he was plotting against the State, and his cunning companion, Romanelli, have been arrested, tried at Rome, and will spend the remainder of their lives in imprisonment on Elba, my master has given me my freedom. I am free to love you, Nino.”
“But the little marble image?” he said. “Why was that deadly thing so ingeniously contrived?”
“In order to strike a blow which was intended should paralyse the monarchy and cause a revolution in Italy,” she answered quickly. “In the blue boudoir in the Quirinal, on a sideboard behind the Queen’s private writing-table, there stands a tiny but exactly similar bust. In collusion with one of the royal servants, it was proposed to exchange this image for one invented by Nenci and Malvano, so that when His Majesty joined the Queen one night after dinner, both would be blown into eternity.”
“Then, by your efforts, and by the imminent risks you ran among that desperate gang, you averted the terrible catastrophe—you, indeed, saved Italy.”
“I suppose I did,” she said. “At that time political feeling ran high, and such a blow at the monarchy would have undoubtedly given the Republicans and Anarchists the upper hand. But I do not now regret,” she added, a look of supreme happiness lighting up her beautiful countenance—“I do not regret, Nino, because I have secured your true honest love.”
“I believe in your honesty, darling, for I know how terribly you have suffered,” he exclaimed, drawing her closer to him, until her head fell upon his shoulder. “Those who now seek to besmirch your good name shall answer to me.”
Their hands clasped, their eyes exchanged a love-look long, deep, and intense. Then her eager lips met his in one fierce passionate kiss.
“The years of my bondage are like some half-remembered hideous nightmare, Nino,” she murmured, still gazing full into his eyes. “But it is all finished, for you, my husband, true, patient, and forbearing placed in my hand a weapon against my enemies; you brought back to me a renewed desire for life and its pleasures; and you gave me deliverance from the evil that encompassed me. Truly a perfect peace is ours, for the dark Day of Temptation has waned, and has given place to a bright and blissful dawn.”
The End.
|
Chapter 1
| |
Chapter 2
| |
Chapter 3
| |
Chapter 4
| |
Chapter 5
| |
Chapter 6
| |
Chapter 7
| |
Chapter 8
| |
Chapter 9
| |
Chapter 10
| |
Chapter 11
| |
Chapter 12
| |
Chapter 13
| |
Chapter 14
| |
Chapter 15
| |
Chapter 16
| |
Chapter 17
| |
Chapter 18
| |
Chapter 19
| |
Chapter 20
| |
Chapter 21
| |
Chapter 22
| |
Chapter 23
| |
Chapter 24
| |
Chapter 25
| |
Chapter 26
| |
Chapter 27
| |
Chapter 28
| |
Chapter 29
| |
Chapter 30
| |
Chapter 31
|