The Day of Temptation

“Well, why have you come – at this hour, too?” she inquired with a haughtiness which she always assumed towards her servants and inferiors. She sat rigid, immovable; and Malvano, student of character that he was, saw plainly that she had braced herself for an effort.

“I asked you to come to me, and you have refused,” he said, folding his arms calmly and looking straight into her rouged and powdered face; “therefore I have come to you.”

“For what purpose? Surely we could have met at the Bonciani?”

“True, but it was imperative that I should see you to-night.”

“More complications – eh?”

“Yes,” he replied, “more complications – serious ones.”

“Serious!” her ladyship gasped, turning instantly pale. “Is the truth known?” she demanded quickly. “Tell me at once; don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Be patient for a moment, and I’ll explain my object in calling,” the Doctor said gravely. “Compose yourself, and listen.”

The Countess of Marshfield drew her skirts around her and moved uneasily in her chair. She was well known in London society, a woman whose eccentricities had for years afforded plenty of food for the gossips, and whose very name was synonymous with senile coquetry. Her age was fully sixty-five, yet like many other women of position, she delighted in the delusion that she was still young, attractive, and fascinating. Her attitude towards young marriageable men would have been nauseating were it not so absolutely ludicrous; and the way in which she manipulated her fan at night caused her to be ridiculed by all the exclusive set in which she moved.

The dead earl, many years her senior, had achieved brilliant success in the Army, and his name was inscribed upon the roll of England’s heroes. Ever since his death, twenty years ago, however, she had been notable on account of her foolish actions, her spasmodic generosity to various worthless institutions, her wild speculations in rotten companies, and her extraordinary eccentricities. As she sat waiting for her visitor to commence, her thin blue lips twitched nervously, and between her eyes was the deep furrow that appeared there whenever she was unduly agitated. But even then she could not resist the opportunity for coquetry, for, taking up her small ivory fan, she opened it, and, slowly waving it to and fro, glanced at him across it, her lips parted in a smile.

But of all men Malvano was one of the least susceptible to feminine blandishments, especially those of such a painfully ugly, artificial person as Lady Marshfield; therefore, heedless of her sudden change of manner towards him, he said bluntly —

“The police have already discovered some facts regarding Vittorina.”

“Of her past?” she cried, starting forward.

“No, of her death,” he answered.

“Have they discovered whether or not it was murder?” she inquired, her bejewelled hand trembling perceptibly.

“They have no doubt that it was murder,” he replied. “They accept the doctor’s theory, and, moreover, as you already know, the Italian Embassy in London are pressing the matter.”

“They suspect at the Embassy – eh?”

“Without doubt. It can scarcely come as a surprise that they are endeavouring to get at the truth. One thing, however, is in our favour; and that is, she cannot tell what she knew. If she were still alive, I’m confident the whole affair would have been exposed before this.”

“And you would have been under arrest.”

He raised his shoulders to his ears, exhibited his palms, grinned, but did not reply.

“How have you ascertained this about the police?” her ladyship continued.

“Arnoldo is acquainted with the King’s Messenger who carries dispatches between the Foreign Office and the British Ambassador in Italy. The messenger knows everything, but refuses to say much.”

“Knows everything!” she cried in alarm. “What do you mean? Has our secret really been divulged?”

“No,” answered he. “He is not aware of the true facts, but he knows how far the knowledge of Scotland Yard extends.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tristram. Captain Tristram.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Then don’t make his acquaintance,” the eccentric woman urged with darkening countenance. “He’s no doubt a dangerous friend.”

“But we may obtain from him some useful knowledge. You know the old saying about being forewarned.”

“Our warnings must come from Livorno,” she answered briefly.

“That will be impossible.”

“Why?”

“Gemma has unfortunately fallen in love.”

“Love! Bah! With whom?”

“With an Englishman,” he answered. “Arnoldo saw them together several times when in Livorno last week.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Armytage – Charles Armytage. He – ”

“Charles Armytage!” her ladyship echoed, starting from her chair. “And he is in love with Gemma?”

“No doubt he is. He intends to marry her.”

“But they must never marry – never!” she cried quickly. “They must be parted immediately, or our secret will at once be out.”

“How? I don’t understand,” he said, with a puzzled expression. “Surely Gemma, of all persons, is still friendly disposed? She owes much to us.”

“Certainly,” Lady Marshfield answered. “But was she not present with Vittorina on that memorable night in Livorno? Did she not witness with her own eyes that which we witnessed?”

“Well, what of that? We have nothing to fear from her.”

“Alas! we have. A word from her would expose the whole affair,” the wizen-faced woman declared. “By some means or other we must part her from Armytage.”

“And by doing so you will at once make her your enemy.”

“No, your own enemy, Doctor Malvano,” she exclaimed, correcting him haughtily. “I am blameless in this matter.”

He looked straight into her dark, sunken eyes, and smiled grimly.

“It is surely best to preserve her friendship,” he urged. “We have enemies enough, in all conscience.”

“Reflect,” she answered quickly. “Reflect for a moment what exposure means to us. If Gemma marries Armytage, then our secret is no longer safe.”

“But surely she has no object to attain in denouncing us, especially as in doing so she must inevitably implicate herself,” he observed.

“No,” she said gravely, after a brief pause. “In this matter I have my own views. They must be parted, Filippo. Armytage has the strongest motive – the motive of a fierce and terrible vengeance – for revealing everything.”

“But why has Armytage any motive in denouncing us? You speak in enigmas.”

“The secret of his motive is mine alone,” the haggard-eyed woman answered. “Seek no explanation, for you can never gain knowledge of the truth until too late, when the whole affair is exposed. It is sufficient for me to tell you that he must be parted from Gemma.”

Her wizened face was bloodless and brown beneath its paint and powder, her blue lips were closed tight, and a hard expression showed itself at the corners of her cruel mouth.

“Then Gemma is actually as dangerous to us as Vittorina was?” Malvano said, deeply reflecting.

“More dangerous,” she declared in a low, harsh voice. “She must be parted from Armytage at once. Every moment’s delay increases our danger. Exposure and disgrace are imminent. In this matter we must risk everything to prevent betrayal.”

Chapter Nine

Beneath the Red, White, and Blue

August passed slowly but gaily in lazy Leghorn. The town lay white beneath the fiery sun-glare through those blazing, breathless hours; the cloudless sky was of that intense blue which one usually associates with Italy, and by day the deserted Passeggio of tamarisks and ilexes, beside the most waveless sea, was for ever enlivened by the chirp of that unseen harbinger of heat, the cicale. Soon, however, the season waned, the stormy libeccio blew frequently, rendering outdoor exercise impossible; but Charles Armytage still lingered on at Gemma’s side, driving with her in the morning along the sea-road to Ardenza and Antignano, or beyond as far as the high-up villa in which lived and died Smollet, the English historian, or ascending to the venerated shrine of the Madonna of Montenero, where the little village peeps forth white and scattered on the green hill-side overlooking the wide expanse of glassy sea. Their afternoons were usually spent amid the crowd of chatterers at Pancaldi’s baths, and each evening they dined together at one or other of the restaurants beside the sea.

One morning late in September, when Armytage’s coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel, the waiter directed his attention to an official-looking note lying upon the tray. He had just risen, and was standing at the window gazing out upon the distant islands indistinct in the morning haze, and thinking of the words of assurance and affection his well-beloved had uttered before he had parted from her at the door, after the theatre on the previous night. Impatiently he tore open the note, and carelessly glanced at its contents. Then, with an expression of surprise, he carefully re-read the letter, saying aloud —

“Strange! I wonder what he wants?”

The note was a formal one, bearing on a blue cameo official stamp the superscription, “British Consulate, Leghorn,” and ran as follows: —

“Dear Sir, —

“I shall be glad if you can make it convenient to call at the Consulate this morning between eleven and one, as I desire to speak to you upon an important and most pressing matter.

“Yours faithfully, —

“John Hutchinson, His Majesty’s Consul.”

“Hutchinson,” he repeated to himself. “Is the Consul here called Hutchinson? It must be the Jack Hutchinson of whom Tristram spoke. He called him ‘jovial Jack Hutchinson.’ I wonder what’s the ‘pressing matter’? Some infernal worry, I suppose. Perhaps some dun or other in town has written to him for my address.”

He paused, his eyes fixed seriously upon the distant sea.

“No!” he exclaimed aloud at last. “His Majesty’s Consul must wait. I’ve promised to take Gemma driving this morning.”

Presently, when he had shaved, and assumed his suit of cool white ducks, the official letter again caught his eye, and he took it up.

“I suppose, after all, it’s only decent behaviour to go round and see what’s the matter,” he muttered aloud. “Yes, I’ll go, and drive with Gemma afterwards.”

Then he leisurely finished his toilet, strolled out into the Viale, and entering one of the little open cabs, was driven rapidly to the wide, handsome Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where on the front of a great old galazzo at the further end were displayed a flagstaff surmounted by the English crown and an escutcheon of the British Royal arms. A tall, well-built, fierce moustached Italian concierge, who looked as if he might once have been an elegant gendarme of the Prince of Monaco, inquired his business, and took his card into an inner room on the right, the private office of the Consul.

After the lapse of a few minutes the concierge returned, and with ceremony ushered him into the presence of the representative of the British Foreign Office.

The room was large, lofty, and airy, with windows overlooking the great Piazza, the centre of Livornese life. The furniture was antique and comfortable, and testified to the taste of its owner; the writing-table littered with documents clearly proved that the office of Consul at Leghorn was no sinecure, and the book-cases were stocked with well-selected and imposing works of reference. Over the fireplace hung a large steel engraving of His Majesty, and on the mantelshelf some signed portraits of celebrities.

“You’ve enjoyed your stay in Leghorn, I hope,” the Consul observed rather stiffly, after inviting his visitor to a seat on the opposite side of the table.

“Very much,” Armytage answered, sinking into the chair.

“You’ll excuse me for one moment,” the Consul said; and scribbling something he touched the bell, and the concierge summoned the Vice-Consul, a slim, tall young Englishman, to whom he gave some directions.

Contrary to Charles Armytage’s expectations, Mr Consul Hutchinson had, notwithstanding his professional frigidity and gravity of manner, the easy-going, good-natured bearing of the genial man of the world. He was a fair, somewhat portly man, comfortably built, shaven save for a small, well-trimmed moustache, the very picture of good health, whose face beamed with good humour, and in every line of whose countenance was good-fellowship portrayed.

There were few skippers up or down the Mediterranean – or seamen, for the matter of that – who did not know Consul Hutchinson at Leghorn, and who had not at some time or another received little kindnesses at his hands. From “Gib.” to “Constant.” Jack Hutchinson had the reputation of being the best, most good-natured, and happiest of all His Majesty’s Consuls, devoted to duty, not to be trifled with certainly, but ever ready to render immediate assistance to the Englishman in difficulties.

“Well,” he exclaimed, looking across at Armytage at last, when they were alone again, “I am glad you have called, because I have something to communicate in confidence to you.”

“In confidence?” Armytage repeated, puzzled.

Mr Consul Hutchinson, still preserving his professional air of dignity as befitted his office, leaned one elbow upon the table, and looking straight into his visitor’s face, said —

“The matter is a purely private, and somewhat painful one. You will, I hope, excuse what I am about to say, for I assure you it is in no spirit of presumption that I venture to speak to you. Remember, you are a British subject, and I am here in order to assist, sometimes even to advise, any subject of His Majesty.”

“I quite understand,” Armytage said, mystified at the Consul’s rather strange manner.

“Well,” Hutchinson went on slowly and deliberately, “I am informed that you are acquainted with a lady here in Leghorn named Fanetti – Gemma Fanetti. Is that so?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“How long have you known her? It is not out of idle curiosity that I ask.”

“Nearly seven months.”

“She is Florentine. I presume you met her in Florence?”

“Yes.”

“Were you formally introduced by any friend who knew her?”

“No,” he answered, after slight hesitation. “We met quite casually.”

“And you followed her here?”

“No. We met here again accidentally. I had no idea she was in Leghorn. Since our first meeting I have been in London several months, and had no knowledge of her address,” he replied.

“And you are, I take it, in ignorance of her past?” Hutchinson said.

Armytage sat silent for a few moments, then quickly recovering himself said a trifle haughtily —

“I really don’t think I’m called upon to answer such a question. I cannot see any reason whatever for this cross-examination regarding my private affairs.”

“Well,” the Consul exclaimed seriously, “the reason is briefly this. It is an extremely painful matter, but I may as well explain at once. You are known by the authorities here to be an associate with this lady – Gemma Fanetti.”

“What of that?” he cried in surprise.

“From what I can understand, this lady has a past – a past which the police have investigated.”

“The police? What do you mean?” he cried, starting up.

“Simply this,” answered the Consul gravely. “Yesterday I received a call from the Questore, and he told me in confidence that you, a British subject, were the close associate of a lady whose past, if revealed, would be a startling and unpleasant revelation to you, her friend. The authorities had, he further said, resolved to order her to leave Leghorn, or remain on penalty of arrest; and in order that you, an English gentleman, might have time to end your acquaintance, he suggested that it might be as well for me to warn you of what the police intended doing. It is to do this that I have asked you here to-day.”

Armytage sat pale, silent, open-mouthed.

“Then the police intend to hound the Signorina Fanetti from Leghorn?” he observed blankly.

“The Italian police possess power to expel summarily from a town any person of whom they have suspicion,” the Consul replied calmly.

“But what do they suspect?” he cried, bewildered. “You speak as if she were some common criminal or adventuress.”

“I have, unfortunately, no further knowledge of the discovery they have made regarding her. It must, however, be some serious allegation, or they would not go the length of expelling her from the city.”

“But why should she be expelled?” he protested angrily. “She has committed no offence. Surely there is some protection for a defenceless woman!”

Hutchinson raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, an expressive gesture one soon acquires after residence in Italy.

“The Questore has supreme power in such a matter,” he said. “He is a very just and honourable official, and I’m sure he would never have taken these steps to avoid you disgrace if there were not some very strong reasons.” Charles Armytage, leaning upon the edge of the Consul’s table, held down his head in deep contemplation.

“Then to-morrow they will order her to quit this place?” he observed thoughtfully. “It’s unjust and brutal! Such treatment of a peaceful woman is scandalous!”

“But remember you’ve admitted that you have no knowledge of her past,” Hutchinson said. “Is it not possible that the police have discovered some fact she has concealed from you?”

“It’s an infernal piece of tyranny!” Armytage cried fiercely. “I suppose the police have fabricated some extraordinary allegations against her, and want money to hush it up. They want to levy blackmail.”

“No, no,” Jack Hutchinson said, his manner at once relaxing as he rose and crossed to the window, his hands behind his back. “The position is a simple one,” he continued, looking him straight in the face. “The police have evidently discovered that this lady is either not what she represents herself to be, or that some extraordinary mystery is attached to her; therefore cut her acquaintance, my dear sir. Take my advice. It will save you heaps of bother.”

“I can’t,” the other answered hoarsely. “I’ll never forsake her!”

“Not if she’s hounded from town to town by the police, like this?”

“No. I love her,” he replied brokenly.

Hutchinson sighed. A silence fell between them deep and complete.

At last the Consul spoke in a grave tone. His professional air had relaxed, as it always did when he desired to assist an Englishman in distress.

“Before you love her,” he suggested, “would it not be as well to ask her what chapter of her life she has concealed? If she really loves you, she will no doubt tell you everything. Is it not an excellent test?”

“But that will not alter the decision of the Questore.” Armytage observed woefully.

“No, that’s true. The lady must leave Leghorn this evening. Take my advice and part from her,” he added sympathetically. “In a few weeks you will forget. And if you would spare her the disgrace of being sent out of Leghorn, urge her to leave of her own accord. If you will pledge your word that she shall leave to-day, I will at once see the Questore, and beg him to suspend the orders he is about to give.”

“I love Gemma, and intend to marry her.”

“Surely not without a very clear knowledge of her past?”

“Already I have decided to make her my wife,” Armytage said, his face set and pale. “What the police may allege will not influence me in any way.”

“Ah! I fear you are hopelessly infatuated,” Hutchinson observed.

“Yes, hopelessly.”

“Then I suppose you will leave Leghorn with her? That she must go is absolutely imperative. In that case if I may advise you, I should certainly not only leave Leghorn, but leave Italy altogether.”

“What!” he cried indignantly. “Will the police of Milan or Venice act in the same cowardly way that they have done here?”

“Most probably. When she leaves, the police will without doubt take good care to know her destination, and inform the authorities of the next town she enters. Your only plan is to leave Italy.”

“Thanks for your advice,” the other replied in a despondent tone. “Loving her as I do, what you have just told me, and what you have hinted, have upset me and destroyed my peace of mind. I fear I’m not quite myself, and must apologise for any impatient words I have used. I shall act upon your suggestion, and leave Italy.” Then he paused, but after a few moments raised his head, saying —

“You have been good enough to give me friendly advice upon many points; may I encroach upon your good nature still further? Tell me, do you think it wise to acquaint her with the facts you have told me?” Hutchinson looked at the man before him, and saw how hopelessly he was in love. He had seen them driving together, and had long ago noticed how beautiful his companion was.

“No,” he answered at last. “If you intend to marry her, there is really no necessity for demanding an immediate explanation. But as soon as you are out of Italy, and you have an opportunity, I should certainly invite her to tell you the whole truth.”

Then, after some further conversation, the two men shook hands, and Charles Armytage slowly made his way downstairs and out across the wide, sunlit Piazza.

From the window Consul Hutchinson watched his retreating figure, and noticed how self-absorbed he was as he strode along. His heart had gone out to sympathise in this brief interview, and a strong desire came upon him to help and protect the lonely Englishman. “Poor devil!” he muttered, “he’s badly hit, and I fear he has a troublous time before him. I wish to God I could help him.”

Chapter Ten

The Mystery of Gemma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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