The Day of Temptation

“Why?”

“Because I leave England to-morrow.”

“You leave England?” she said hoarsely. “You intend to leave me here?”

“Surely you are comfortable enough? Malvano is Italian, and, although I was not aware that you were acquainted with him, he is nevertheless a very good fellow, and no doubt you are happy.”

“Happy!” she cried. “Happy without you, Nino! Ah! you are too cruel! If you could but know the truth; if you could but know what I have suffered, what I am at this moment suffering for your sake, you would never treat me thus – never.”

“Ah! your story is always the same – always,” he laughed superciliously. “I know now why you would never invite me to your house in Florence. You could not well take me to your great palazzo without me knowing its name. Again, you lived in that small flat in the Viale at Livorno instead of at your villa at Ardenza, that beautiful house overlooking the sea, coveted by all the Livornesi.”

“I have a reason for not living there,” she exclaimed quickly. “I have not entered it now for two years. Perhaps I shall never again cross its threshold.”

“And it is untenanted?”

“Certainly. I do not wish to let it.”

“Why?”

“It is a caprice of mine,” she answered. “To a woman of my character caprices are allowed, I suppose?” Then, after a slight hesitation, she raised her fine eyes to his, saying, “Now tell me candidly, Nino, why have you come here to-night?”

“To see the Doctor. I want to consult him.”

“Are you ill?” she asked with some alarm, noticing that he was unusually pale.

“No, I want his advice regarding another matter, a matter which concerns myself.” As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and saw how handsome she was. In that loose gown of silk and plush, with its heavy girdle, she looked, indeed, the notorious Countess Funaro about whom he had heard so much scandalous gossip.

Slowly she advanced towards him, her small white hands outstretched, her arms half bare, her beautiful face upturned to his. Those eyes were so blue and clear, and that face so perfect an incarnation of purity, that it was hard to believe that she was actually the notorious woman who had so scandalised Florentine society. He stood before her again, fascinated as he always had been in her presence in those bygone sunny days in Tuscany, when he had basked daily in her smiles and idled lazily beside the Mediterranean.

“Nino,” she said, in a soft crooning voice scarcely above a whisper – a voice which showed him she was deeply in earnest – “Nino, if it pleases you to break my heart then I will not complain. I know I deserve all the terrible punishment I am now enduring, for I’ve sinned before Heaven and have sinned against you, the man who loved me. You cast me aside as a worthless woman because of my evil reputation; you credit all the base libellous stories circulated by my enemies; you believe that I have toyed with your affection and have no real genuine love for you. Well, Nino,” she sighed, “let it be so. I know that now you are aware of my identity you can never believe in my truth and honesty; but I tell you that I still love you, even though you may denounce and desert me.”

He turned from her with a gesture of impatience.

“Tell me, Nino,” she went on eagerly, following him and grasping his arm convulsively, “tell me the truth. Why are you here to-night?”

He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement to free himself from her grasp.

“Malvano is Italian,” he answered. “I have come to consult him upon a matter in which only an Italian can assist me.”

“I am Italian,” she said quickly. “Will you not let me render you at least one service, even if it be the last?” She looked earnestly into his face, and her soft arms wound themselves around his neck.

“I have no faith in you,” he answered. “I was a fool to enter here, but your voice brought back to me so many memories of those days that are dead, and I couldn’t resist.”

“Then you still think of me sometimes, caro,” she said, clinging to him. “Your love is not yet dead?”

“It is dead,” he declared, fiercely disengaging himself. “Gemma, whom I knew and loved in Livorno, will ever remain a sad sweet memory throughout my life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro, the woman against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, I can never trust, I can never love.”

She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A deathlike pallor overspread her face, and her eyes grew large, dark, and mournful. There are some griefs that are too deep, even for tears.

“You cannot trust me, Nino,” she cried a moment later. “But you can nevertheless heed one word which I speak in deepest earnest.”

“Well?”

“Leave this house. Do not seek this man, Malvano.”

“Why?” he inquired, surprised. “He’s my friend. We have met once or twice since we shot together in Berkshire.”

Again she advanced close to him, so close that he felt her breath upon his cheek, and the sweet odour of lilac from her chiffons filled his nostrils.

“If you absolutely refuse to tell me the reason you have come here to-night, then I will tell you,” she whispered. “You are in fear.”

“In fear? I don’t understand.”

“You have enemies, and you wish to consult the Doctor with regard to them,” she went on boldly. Then, in a voice scarcely audible, she added, whispering into his ear: “You have received warning.”

He started suddenly, looking at her dismayed.

“Who told you? How did you know?” he gasped.

“I cannot now explain,” she answered breathlessly, still holding his arm in convulsive grasp, panting as she spoke. “It is sufficient for you to know the intention of your enemies, so that you may be forewarned against them.”

“Then it is actually true that I’m in personal danger!” he cried. “To my knowledge I’ve never done an evil turn to anybody, and this is all a puzzling enigma. The letter here” – and he drew from his overcoat a note which had been delivered by a boy-messenger at his chambers in Ebury Street – “this letter is evidently written by an Italian, because of the flourish of the capitals: and I came here to-night to ask Malvano the best course to pursue. I’m staying in the neighbourhood, over at Apethorpe.”

“Then leave at once,” she urged earnestly. “To-morrow, get away by the first train to London, and thence to the Continent again. Take precautions that you are not followed. Go to France, to Germany, to Spain, anywhere out of reach. Then write to me at the Poste Restante, at Charing Cross, and I will come to you.”

“But why? How do you know all this?”

“Look at that letter, Nino,” she said in a low, deep tone. “Look once again at the handwriting.”

He opened it beneath the silk-shaded lamp and scanned it eagerly.

“It’s yours,” he gasped, the truth suddenly dawning upon him. “You yourself have given me this warning!” She nodded.

“Tell me why, quickly,” he cried, placing his hand upon her shoulder. “Tell me why.”

“I warned you, Nino,” she answered, in a soft, hoarse voice; “I warned you because I love you.”

“But what have I to fear?” he demanded. “If I’m threatened I can seek protection of the police. To my knowledge I haven’t a single enemy.”

“We all of us blind ourselves with that consolation,” she replied. “But listen. Of all men, avoid Malvano. Leave this house at once, and get out of England at the earliest moment. Your enemies are no ordinary ones; they are desperate, and hold life cheap.”

“But you!” he cried, puzzled. “You are here, in the house of this very man against whom you warn me!”

“Ah! do not heed me,” she answered. “Your love for me is dead. Yet I am still yours, and in this matter you must, if you value your safety, trust me.”

“But Malvano is an excellent fellow,” he protested. “I must just wish him good-night. What would he think if he knew I had been here and had this private interview with you?”

“No, Nino,” she cried, her countenance pale and earnest. “You must not! You hear me? You must not. If it were known that I had given you warning then my position would be one of greater peril than it now is.”

“But surely I need not fear the Doctor? Every one about here knows him. He’s the most popular man for miles around.”

“And the most dangerous,” she whispered. “No, for my sake, fly, Nino. He may enter this room at any moment. I love you, and no harm shall befall you if you will obey me. Leave this place at once, and promise me not to make any attempt to see Malvano.” His eyes met hers, and he saw in them a love-light that was unmistakable. By her clear open glance he became almost convinced that she was speaking the truth. Yet he still hesitated.

“Ah!” she cried, suddenly flinging her arms again about his neck. “Go, Nino; you are unsafe here. Leave England to-morrow for my sake – for my sake, caro. But kiss me once,” she implored in her sweet, lisping Italian. “Give me one single kiss before you part from me.”

His brow darkened. He held his breath.

“No, no,” she cried wildly, divining his disinclination, “I am not the Contessa Funaro, now. I am Gemma – the woman who loves you, the woman who is at this moment risking her life for you. Kiss me. Then go. Fly, caro, abroad, and may no harm befall you, Nino, my beloved!” Then she raised her beautiful face to his.

His countenance relaxed, he bent swiftly, and their lips met in one long, tender, passionate caress. Then, urged by her, he wished her a whispered farewell, and disappeared through the heavy curtains before the window as silently as he had come, while she stood panting, breathless, but in an ecstasy of contentment. Once again he had pressed her lips and breathed one single word of love.

Chapter Twenty Two

The Unknown

In winter the roads in Rutlandshire are none too good for cycling. When wet they are too heavy; when frosty they are apt to be rutty and dangerous. Once or twice Gemma had been out with the two daughters of the rector of a neighbouring parish, but as she could not understand half a dozen words they said, and discovered them to be of that frigid genus peculiar to the daughters-of-the-cloth, she preferred riding alone. In January the country around Uppingham is bleak, brown, and bare, different indeed from winter in her own sunny land, but it was the exhilarating sensation of cycling that delighted her, and she did not ride for the purpose of seeing the district. The hills around Lyddington were poor indeed after the wild grandeur of the Lucca Mountains, or the Apennines, but on bright mornings she found her ride very delightful, and always returned fresh, rosy, and hungry.

A fortnight had gone by since the night Charles Armytage had visited her, but she had received no word from him, because the address she gave was at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross and she had not been to London. The kiss he had given her before parting reassured her, and now, instead of being pensive, pale-faced, and wan, she had resumed something of her old reckless gaiety, and would go about the house humming to herself the chorus of that gay song, popular to every café-concert in Italy, “M’abbruscia, m’abbruscia, ’t capa, signurè,” or jingle upon the piano for the amusement of the Doctor and Mrs Nenci, “Pennariale,” “La Bicicletta,” “Signo’, dicite si,” and a host of other equally well-known ditties. Both Malvano, who always treated her with studied courtesy, and her female companion were surprised at her sudden change of manner. Neither, however, knew the truth. Armytage had evidently succeeded in leaving the house and gaining the road without having been seen by the servants.

The frosty wind was sweeping keen as a knife across the uplands one morning as she mounted her cycle, and with a laughing farewell to the Doctor, who was just ascending into his high trap to visit a patient some five miles away in an opposite direction, she allowed her machine to run rapidly down the hill for nearly a mile without pedalling. The roads were hard and rutty, but she eared nothing for that, and rode straight as an arrow, taking both hands from the handles in order to readjust the pin which held her neat little toque. Few women rode better than she, and few looked more graceful or pedalled more evenly. In the leafy Cascine at Florence, in the Public Gardens at Milan, in the Bois at Paris, and along the Viale at Livorno, her riding had been many times admired. But here, on these Rutlandshire highways there was no crowd of gossiping idlers, none to remark her beauty, none to whisper strange stories of “the pretty Contessa,” and for the first time for months she now felt free from the trammels of her past.

About a mile and a half from Lyddington, she turned off suddenly on to a byroad, rutty and ill-kept, and, still downhill, rode towards Seaton Station. The Doctor expected a small parcel of drugs from London, and, as it could be tied to her handle-bar, she had that morning made it the object of her ride. Malvano, however, had been compelled to scribble a line to the station-master for, as she could not speak English, and the local railway official could not be expected to have any knowledge of Tuscan, the note would obviate any complications.

Shortly before reaching the station, the road crossed the railway by a level-crossing kept by a lame man, one of the company’s servants, who had been injured years before, and who now led a life of comparative ease in his snug little cottage beside the line. As she approached, she saw that the great gates were closed, and, riding up to them, she dismounted and called to the cottager for the way to be opened.

The grey-headed old man appeared at the door in his shabby overcoat, shook his head, and cast a glance down the line. Then, almost next instant, the Continental express from Harwich to Birmingham flew past. The gatekeeper drew back one of the levers beside his door, entered the house for a moment, then came forth with something in his hand.

“This letter has been left for you, miss,” he said, politely touching his cap and handing a note to her. “It’s been here these four days, and I was told not to send it up to the Doctor’s, but to give it to you personally next time you passed alone.”

“Who gave it to you?” she asked quickly, in Italian, as she took the letter in one hand, holding her cycle with the other.

But the man, unacquainted with strange languages, regarded her rather suspiciously, and answered —

“I don’t understand French, miss.”

They both laughed, and from her purse she gave the man some coppers. Not until she got to a lonely part of the road, on her return journey, did she dismount to read the secret missive. It consisted of five words only, in Italian, scribbled in pencil upon a piece of that common foreign notepaper ruled in tiny squares. The words were – “Bonciani, Monday, at five. Urgent.”

It bore no signature, no date, nothing to give a clue whence the mysterious appointment emanated. She examined its superscription, but utterly failed to recognise the handwriting.

For a long time she stood beneath the leafless oaks with the scrap of paper in her hand, meditating deeply. It was plain that whoever had summoned her to London feared to sign the note lest it should fall into other hands; furthermore, the writer evidently knew that it was unsafe to send a message through the post direct to the Doctor’s house. Being unable to speak English, she could not ask the railway watchman to describe the person who had placed it in his hands. She could only act as the unknown writer demanded, or, on the other hand, take no notice of the strange communication.

It was not from Charles, for she well knew his bold, sprawly hand. This was decidedly the writing of one of her compatriots; but as she reflected, she could not think of any one who could desire her urgent attendance at the obscure little restaurant in Regent Street. She had often heard of the Bonciani, even while in Italy, but had never visited it. Then suddenly the sweet, distant sound of church bells, borne to her on the frosty wind, sounded so different to that from the old sun-blanched campanili of the Tuscan churches, and brought to her recollection that the day was Sunday, a festal day in her own land, and that the appointment with the unknown was on the morrow.

Irresolute and puzzled, she tore up both envelope and paper, and cast them to the wind; then, seating herself in her saddle, she rode onward up the long incline which led to Lyddington.

That afternoon there were two or three callers – the wife and daughter of a retired manufacturer living at Laxton, and a couple of young men, sons of old Squire Gregory, of Apethorpe, who had seen Gemma cycling and driving with the Doctor, and who had been struck by her extraordinary chic. One of them, the elder, spoke Italian a little, and they chatted together in the drawing-room, after which tea was served. She did not care for that beverage, and only drank it because it seemed to her the proper thing to do in England. She would have much preferred a glass of menta, or one or other of those brilliantly coloured syrups so dear to the palate of the Italian.

With that ineffable politeness of his race, Malvano entertained his visitors in a manner polished and refined, while Mrs Nenci, a rather striking figure in black, spoke broken English with them, and did the honours of the house. People often called at the Doctor’s in the afternoon, for he was a merry bachelor with the reputation of being the most good-hearted, generous, easy-going man in the county; and on this Sunday the assembly was quite a pleasant one, the more so to Gemma when she found a good-looking young man to whom she could chat.

They were standing together in the deep bay of the old-fashioned window, half hidden by the heavy curtains. The room was filled with the gay chatter of the visitors, and he now saw his opportunity to speak to her.

“Signorina,” he said in a low whisper, “a friend of mine is our mutual friend.”

“I don’t understand you?” she inquired, starting in surprise, and glancing quickly at him.

“Charles Armytage,” young Gregory answered. “He was staying with me until about a fortnight ago. Then he left suddenly.”

“Well?”

“He doesn’t dare to write to you here, but has written to me.”

“Where is he?” she inquired eagerly.

“Abroad,” the young man replied hurriedly. “In his letter to me yesterday, he asked me to call here at once, see you, and tell you that he is in Brussels; and that if you write, address him at the Poste Restante.”

“He is still there?” she asked. “Then a telegram to-day – now – would reach him?”

“Certainly,” her young companion replied. “He says he will send me word the moment he changes his address, and asks me to request you to write. He says it is unsafe, however, under the circumstances, for him to respond to your letter.”

“Thank you,” she answered, breathing more freely. The knowledge that he had escaped to Brussels, and that she could give him further warning, if needed, was to her reassuring. “It is extremely kind of you to bring me this welcome message. I had no idea that you knew Mr Armytage.”

“We were at Eton together,” Gregory answered. “I’ve known him ever since I can remember. But I see my brother is going to drive the Blatherwycke parson home, so I must say good-bye; and I hope to call again, as soon as I have any further news – if I may.”

She answered him with a glance. Then together they returned into the centre of the room, chatting as if no confidences had been exchanged, and a moment later he took leave of her.

Next morning, in a dark stuff walking dress, she mounted her cycle, having announced her intention to ride over to King’s Cliffe and lunch with some friends of Malvano’s who had invited her. Instead, however, she went to Gretton Station, placed her cycle in the cloakroom, and took a first-class ticket to London, determined to keep the mysterious appointment. It was nearly three o’clock when she arrived, and she at once lunched at the railway buffet, idled there for half an hour, and then took a cab to Regent Street, where she whiled away the time gazing into the windows of the milliners and dressmakers, unaware that a shabby, middle-aged, unimportant-looking man was narrowly watching her movements, or that this man was Inspector Elmes of Vine Street.

At last she glanced at her little watch, with its two hearts set in diamonds on the back – a beautiful souvenir which her absent lover had given her in the early days of their acquaintance – and found it wanted ten minutes to five. She had passed the obscure rendezvous, and glanced at its window with the sickly looking palms and india-rubber plants, the long-necked wine-flasks she knew so well, and the two framed menus; therefore, considering it time to enter the place, she retraced her steps from Piccadilly Circus, and a few minutes later opened the door and walked into the long, narrow salon, with its marble-topped tables and plush lounges.

Two or three men, whom she at once recognised as compatriots, were sipping coffee and smoking. As she passed, they eyed her admiringly; but without a glance at them she walked to the further end, and seating herself at a table on the left, ordered coffee.

Scarcely had it been brought, when the door again opened, and there lounged in leisurely a tall, well-built, handsome man in long dark overcoat and brown soft felt hat. Without hesitation he walked straight to her table, bowed politely, and with a word of greeting seated himself. Her face went white as the marble before her; she held her breath. In that instant she recollected it was the day, the hour, and the place mentioned in that remarkable letter found upon her unfortunate friend Vittorina – that letter which had so puzzled and mystified the Ambassador, the police, the newspaper reporters, and the British public.

She had been entrapped.

Chapter Twenty Three

A Ruler of Europe

“Well?” Gemma exclaimed, quickly recovering herself, and looking keenly into the dark face of the newcomer.

“Well?” he said, imitating with a touch of sarcasm the tone in which she had spoken, at the same time taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it with a vesta from the china stand upon the table.

“What does this mean?” she inquired in Italian, regarding him with a look which clearly showed his presence was unwelcome.

“Finish your coffee and come out with me. I must speak with you. Here it’s too risky. We might be overheard. St. James’s Park is near, and we can talk there without interruption,” he said. Evidently a gentleman, aged about fifty-five, with long iron-grey side-whiskers and hair slightly blanched. His eyes were intelligent and penetrating, his forehead broad and open, his chin heavy and decisive, and he was undoubtedly a man of stern will and wide achievements. He spoke polished Italian, and his manner was perfect.

Gemma kept her eyes fixed upon him, fascinated by fear. Her gloved hand trembled perceptibly as she raised her cup to her lips.

“You had no idea that you would meet me – eh?” he laughed, speaking in an undertone. “Well, drink your coffee, and let us take a cab to the Park.” He flung down sixpence to the waiter, and they went out together. She walked mechanically into the street, dumbfounded, stupefied.

By his side she staggered for a few paces, then halting said, in a sudden tone of anger —

“Leave me! I refuse to accompany you.”

Her companion smiled. It was already dark, the shop windows were lit, and the hurrying crowd of passers-by did not notice them.

“You’ll come with me,” the man said sternly. “I want to talk to you seriously, and in privacy. It was useless in that place with half a dozen people around, all with ears open. Besides,” he added, “in a café of that sort I may be recognised.” Then he hailed a passing cab.

“No, no!” she cried, as it drew up to the kerb. “I won’t go – I won’t!”

“But you shall!” he declared firmly, taking her arm. “You know me well enough to be aware that I’m not to be trifled with. Come, you’ll obey me.”

She hesitated for a moment, gazed blankly around her as if seeking some one to protect her, sighed, and then slowly ascended into the vehicle.

“Athenaeum Club,” he shouted to the driver, and sprang in beside the trembling woman. It was evident from her manner that she held him in repugnance, while he, cool and triumphant, regarded her with satisfaction.

During the drive they exchanged few words. She was pensive and sullen, while he addressed her in a strangely rough manner for one of such outward refinement. They alighted, and descending the steps into the Mall at the point where a relic of old-time London still remains in the cow-sheds where fresh milk can be obtained, crossed the roadway and entered the Park by one of the deserted paths which ran down to the ornamental water.