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.
Its contact thrilled him. In her clear blue eyes he could distinguish the light of unshed tears.
“Yes,” he answered – “news which makes it necessary that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible moment.”
“And how long shall you remain?” she inquired.
“I shall not return to Italy,” he replied decisively, his eyes still upon hers.
“You will not come back to me?” she cried blankly. “What have I done, Nino? Tell me, what have I done that you should thus forsake me?”
“I do not intend to forsake you,” he answered, grasping her hand. “I will never forsake you; I love you far too well.”
“You love me!” she echoed, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Then why go away and leave me alone? You must have seen how fondly I love you in return.”
“I shall not go alone,” he answered her, rising and placing his arms tenderly about her neck. “That is, if you will go with me.”
“With you?” she exclaimed, her face suddenly brightening. “With you, Nino?”
There was a deep silence. She gazed into his dark, serious eyes with an expression of love and devotion more eloquent than words; and he, still holding her hand, bent until their lips met in a fierce, passionate caress.
“Surely you do not fear to travel with me without regard for the convenances?” he said.
“Have we not already set them at naught?” she answered, looking earnestly into his face. “Unfortunately, I have no chaperone, no friends; therefore, according to Italian manners, your presence here in my house is against all the laws of etiquette;” and she laughed a strange, hollow laugh through her tears.
“We can, I think, Gemma, set aside etiquette, loving each other as we do!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand. “Let us go together to London, and there marry.”
“Why not marry in Italy?” she suggested, after a pause. “Marriage at your British Consulate is binding.”
The mention of the Consulate brought back to his memory all that Hutchinson had said. Her words seemed to imply that she did not wish to leave Tuscany.
“Why in Italy?” he inquired. “You have no tie here!”
She hesitated for a moment.
“No, none whatever,” she assured him in a voice which sounded strangely harsh and unconvincing. He attributed her agitation to the excitement of the moment and the fervency of her love.
“Then why do you wish to remain?” he inquired bluntly.
“I have reasons,” she replied mechanically, her eyes slowly wandering around the room. Suddenly she rose, and hastily snatching up an open letter that was lying upon the mantelshelf, crushed it within the palm of her gloved hand. He was sitting with his back to the mantel, therefore he saw nothing of this strange action, and believed, when she went out of the room a moment later, that she went to speak with her servant.
True, she spoke some words with Margherita in the kitchen, but placing the letter upon the burning charcoal, she watched the flame slowly consume it. Then, with a parting order to Margherita uttered in a tone distinctly audible to her lover, she returned smilingly to his side.
“For what reason do you want to remain here?” he inquired when she had reseated herself with a word of apology for her absence.
“It is only natural that I should be loth to leave my own country,” she answered evasively, laughing.
“No further motive?” he asked, a trifle incredulously. “Well, I have many acquaintances in Florence, in Milan, and Rome.”
“And you desire to remain in Italy on their account?” he exclaimed. “Only the other day you expressed satisfaction at the suggestion of leaving Italy.”
“I have since changed my mind.”
“And you intend to remain?”
“Not if you are compelled to leave Livorno, Nino,” she answered with that sweet smile which always entranced him.
In her attitude he detected mystery. She appeared striving to hide from him some important fact, and he suddenly determined to discover what was its nature. Why, he wondered, should she desire to remain in Tuscany after the satisfaction she had already expressed at the prospect of life in England?
“I am compelled to go to-night,” he said. “The train leaves at half-past nine, and we shall take the through wagon-lit from Pisa to Paris at midnight. If you’ll be ready, I’ll wire to Rome to secure our berths in the car.”
“Then you really mean to leave?” she asked in a tone of despair.
“Certainly,” he replied, puzzled at her strange manner.
“It will perhaps be better for me to remain,” she observed with a deep sigh.
“Why?”
“If we marry, you would tire of me very, very soon. Besides, you really know so little of me;” and she regarded him gravely with her great, clear, wide-open eyes.
“Ah, that’s just it!” he cried. “You have told me nothing.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a careless air, and smiled.
“You have never inquired,” she answered.
“Then I ask you now,” he said.
“And I am unable to answer you – unable to tell the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling hand seeking his.
“Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and staring at her in blank surprise.
“Because – because I love you too well to deceive you,” she sobbed. Then she added, “No, after all, it will be best for us to part – best for you. If you knew all, as you must some day – if we married, you would only hate me;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding tears.
“Hate you – why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her slim waist.
With a sudden movement she raised her veil and wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief.
“Ah! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. “I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”
“There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, purposely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had just uttered.
“You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” she said, sighing deeply.
“Then you will not accompany me?”
Her blue eyes, childlike in their innocence, were fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears.
“For your sake it is best we should part,” she answered hoarsely.
“Why? I cannot understand your meaning,” he cried. “We love one another. What do you fear?”
“I fear myself.”
“Yourself?” he echoed. Then, drawing her closer to him, he exclaimed in a low intense voice, “Come, Gemma, confide in me. Tell we why you desire to remain here; why you are acting so strangely to-day.”
She rose slowly from the divan, a slim, woeful figure, and swayed unevenly as she answered —
“No, Nino. Do not ask me.”
“But you still love me?” he demanded earnestly. “Have you not just expressed readiness to marry me?”
“True,” she replied, pale and trembling. “I will marry you if you remain here in Livorno. But if you leave – if you leave, then we must part.”
“My journey is absolutely necessary,” he declared. “If it were not, I should certainly remain with you.”
“In a week, or a fortnight at most, you can return, I suppose? Till then, I shall remain awaiting you.”
“No,” he replied firmly. “When I leave Italy, I shall not return.” Then, after a slight pause, he added in a low, sympathetic tone, “Some secret oppresses you. Gemma. Why not take me into your confidence?”
“Because – well, because it is utterly impossible.”
“Impossible! Yet, we love one another. Is your past such a profound secret, then?”
“All of us, I suppose, have our secrets, Nino,” she replied earnestly. “I, like others, have mine.”
“Is it of such a character that I, your affianced husband, must not know?” he asked in a voice of bitter reproach.
“Yes,” she answered nervously. “Even to you, the man I love, I am unable to divulge the strange story which must remain locked for ever within my heart.”
“Then you have no further confidence in me?”
“Ah! Yes, I have, Nino. It is my inability to tell everything, to explain myself, and to present my actions to you in a true light, that worries me so.”
“But why can’t you tell me everything?” he demanded.
“Because I fear to.”
“I love you, Gemma,” he assured her tenderly. “Surely you do not doubt the strength of my affection?”
“No,” she whispered, agitated, her trembling fingers closing upon his. “I know you love me. What I fear is the dire consequences of the exposure of my secret.”
“Then, to speak plainly, you are in dread of the actions of some person who holds power over you?” he hazarded.
She was silent. Her heart beat wildly, her breast heaved and fell quickly; her chin sank upon her chest in an attitude of utter dejection.
“Have I guessed the truth?” he asked in a calm, serious voice.
She nodded in the affirmative with a deep-drawn sigh. “Who is this person whom you fear?”
“Ah! no, Nino,” she burst forth, trembling with agitation she had vainly striven to suppress. “Do not ask me that. I can never tell you – never!”
“But you must – you shall!” he cried fiercely. “I love you, and will protect you from all your enemies, whoever they may be.”
“Impossible,” she answered despairingly. “No, let us part. You can have no faith in me after my wretched admissions of to-day.”
“I still have every faith in you, darling,” he hastened to reassure her. “Only tell me everything, and set my mind at rest.”
“No,” she protested. “I can tell you nothing – absolutely nothing.”
“You prefer, then, that we should be put asunder rather than answer my questions?”
“I cannot leave Italy with you,” she answered simply but harshly.
“Not if we were to marry in England as soon as the legal formalities can be accomplished?”
“I am ready to marry you here – to-day if you desire,” she said. “But I shall not go to London.”
“Why?”
“I have reasons – strong ones,” she answered vehemently.
“Then your enemies are in London?” he said quickly. “Are they English?”
At that instant the door-bell rang loudly, and both listened intently as Margherita answered the somewhat impetuous summons. There were sounds of low talking, and a few moments later the servant, pale-faced and scared, entered the room, saying —
“Signorina! There are two officers of police in the house, and they wish to speak with you immediately.”
“The police!” Gemma gasped, trembling. “Then they’ve discovered me!”
There was a look of unutterable terror in her great blue eyes; the light died instantly out of her sweet face; she reeled, and would have fallen had not her lover started up and clasped her tenderly. Her beautiful head, with its mass of fair hair, fell inert upon his shoulder. This blow, added to the mental strain she had already undergone, had proved too much.
“Nino,” she whispered hoarsely, “you still love me – you love me, don’t you? And you will not believe what they allege against me – not one single word?”