CHAPTER XXVI.
LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING.
Paul Desfrayne’s eyes had not deceived him. He had really and truly seen Lucia Guiscardini hurrying away from the scene of her murderous treachery.
A woman of insatiable ambition, she had resolved to let nothing stand in the way of her advancement to the highest dignities she could hope to reach.
Ignorant, ungovernable in her temper, resentful when any one crossed her path, or tried to hinder her from following her own fancies, she was at once resolute in planning schemes, and unscrupulous in carrying them out.
During her brief flight to Paris, on escaping what she felt would be a useless interview with Captain Desfrayne, she had reflected with all the force of her cunning brain as to the course she should take.
It was true that a Russian prince, reputed to be of fabulous wealth, was devoted to her, and had offered his heart, hand, royal coronet, and vast possessions. His diamonds alone would have been a lure to her; and neither by day nor by night could she resist the glittering, delicious dreams conjured up by his offers.
She had not destroyed the marriage-register stolen from the charge of her brother—not because she was withheld from the deed by any conscientious scruple, but she did not know what the punishment for so black a crime might be were she ever discovered.
Until she accidentally saw Leonardo Gilardoni speaking to Captain Desfrayne, she had not for some time been aware whether he was living or dead.
A sudden terror seized her when she found that these two men had come together. It would have been a welcome relief if she could have been sure they would release her from her bondage; but she knew that both had every reason to hate her with the bitterness of men who had been utterly ruined by her cruel hand, andshe felt persuaded that they were bent on dragging her to justice.
She kept the book she so keenly abhorred hidden in a cabinet with a peculiar lock and several secret drawers, and, in fear lest Leonardo should be the means of a search being made among the papers, she thought and thought until her head ached from sheer pain and weariness of the desirability of burning the telltale pages. But the vague dread of the unknown penalty withheld her, even when she once took out the parchment-covered volume, and stood contemplating it. She had but to ignite a taper close at hand, and the deed would be accomplished in a few minutes.
“But I dare not,” she shudderingly decided. “No; I must pursue another plan.”
With infinite caution and craftiness, she ascertained whither Paul Desfrayne had gone, and found for certain that he had taken Gilardoni with him. Determined to see her husband, but afraid to send for him, or to leave any trace that they had met, she had dressed herself in plain dark clothes, of a very different description from those she usually wore, and had gone down to Holston.
As the express arrived in London, the train in which she was to start was slowly filling with passengers. From the window of the second-class carriage, in which she had purposely seated herself, she had seen Paul Desfrayne alight, and then linger to speak with the young lady, whose appearance was completely unfamiliar to the Italian singer. She felt thankful that there would be no risk of meeting him at Holston.
A porter happened to be near the door of the compartment, and she asked him when the next train would leave London for Holston. The man went to look at the time-table, and returned with the information that there would not be one until 6:15. She thanked the porter with a smile.
“Good,” she thought to herself. “I shall have time enough for my little talk.”
Arrived at Holston, she walked toward the barracks, which, unless she could not help herself, she did not intend to enter. There was a dingy, uninviting publichouse in the vicinity, and a few cottages sprinkled about.
After a brief consideration, she went up to one of the most decent-looking of the latter, where an old woman sat knitting by the door.
The old dame readily allowed her to sit down, and, after a short, desultory talk, the signora, who affected to be a very plain person indeed, asked the woman if there was any boy about who would run on a message to the barracks.
“I want to see my husband,” she said very simply. “You see, he and I had a quarrel before he left London, and I am so unhappy. I believe I was to blame; but I don’t want to go there, and be looked at by the men there. My husband might be displeased by my coming.”
The old dame sympathized with the young wife’s feelings, and readily found a lout of a boy, who stared with all his eyes at the beautiful stranger in the somber garments.
Madam Guiscardini gave him a tiny note in a sealed envelope, directed to Mr. Gilardoni, and slipped a shilling into his hand. She could not venture to give him more, lest he should talk. The boy went, and the signora waited, listening to the old woman’s talk, and comprehending no more of her babble than she did of the buzzing of the bees and flies in the neat little garden.
Within half an hour she saw, as she looked eagerly from the window, the well-known form of Leonardo Gilardoni rapidly approaching the cottage, accompanied by her messenger. Her note had contained only a line or two, in Italian:
“Leonardo, I would see you. I have something of importance to say to you. The bearer of this will tell you where to find me.Lucia.”
“Leonardo, I would see you. I have something of importance to say to you. The bearer of this will tell you where to find me.
Lucia.”
She was still standing by the window when he entered the diminutive room. They had not met since that day he had surprised her in the garden at Florence. The recollection of that day came back on both with a rush.
Leonardo paused on the threshold. Lucia did not move.
“You have sent for me?” he said.
The signora shrugged her shoulders and smiled mockingly, it seemed to her husband.
“Why have you sent for me?” he demanded.
She left her place by the window, and came near to him.
“What I have to say,” she answered, “I would not that other ears than yours should hear. Will you walk a little way with me toward the corn-fields I see yonder?” pointing from the window at the back of the room.
“It is indifferent to me where I listen to you. It is impossible you can have aught to say that will be pleasant for me to hear,” replied Gilardoni bitterly.
“That remains to be seen,” she lightly replied. “Perhaps I may have something to say that will please you very much indeed.”
For a moment he thought that perhaps she knew her brother was coming back, and that she desired to offer some kind of compromise, or to throw herself on his mercy. But he followed very quietly as she led the way down the narrow path of the garden at the rear of the cottage, brushing past the common yet sweet-smelling humble country flowers, until they were at the bottom, and could step unimpeded into a piece of ground that ran between the garden and the corn-field, where the golden grain lay like a yellow sea.
Here no one could possibly overhear what passed, and presently they would be out of sight of even the cottages that lay sprinkled about. Then Lucia spoke. Her voice was firm and calm, her manner composed.
“Leonardo Gilardoni, I acknowledge no claim you may choose to make upon me, but I wish to be free from any annoyance you may possibly, from spite, think fit to bring upon me. I have received offers of marriage from a nobleman of the highest rank, and of immense wealth. It is my purpose to accept these offers.”
“While you are the wife of another?” exclaimed Gilardoni.
“Prove your words,” she disdainfully replied. “But that you cannot do, be they true or false. I have not come here to bandy words with you as to my real position.I am well aware that, although your accusations would be totally without foundation, yet, if breathed to his highness, they would prejudice him against me. Therefore, I wish to silence you. If you refuse to accede to my proposition, it does not signify your using it as an additional proof of your base calumnies, for you will not be able to show that I ever made it.”
“Go on. Your proposition?”
“If you will agree to sign a paper, acknowledging that there is not the slightest foundation for your assertion that I have been married before—to you—and will further agree that on signing this paper you will depart for America, and promise never to return, I will settle ten thousand pounds on you. Nay, do not speak. I trust to your promise, for I know you would not break your word, nor would you promise lightly.”
Leonardo Gilardoni broke into a bitter laugh as he folded his arms and looked his wife steadily in the face.
She raised her hands almost in a supplicating manner, and for a moment he idly noticed the flash and sparkle of a wonderfully brilliant ring upon her finger.
“You mean this proposition seriously?” he asked.
A malevolent light gleamed in the lustrous eyes of Madam Guiscardini, and a spiteful smile curled round the ruby-red lips.
“You think I love you so well that I have taken the trouble and run the risk of secretly traveling all the way hither from London for the sake of lightly enjoying a passing jest with you?” she sibilated.
“Accept my offer, and see if it be really meant or not. I know you to be of a dogged, stubborn nature. I know, to my cost, that once you take a crotchet into your head, nothing can displace it. I once appealed to your love—a passion I neither believe in nor comprehend—I wept at your feet, and you turned a deaf ear to my entreaties. Silence! Hear me!
“I never cared for you, and now I hate you! I appealed to yourlove—now I appeal to your interest. Surely—surely—surely you will not refuse a fortune. Surely your hate of me cannot lead you to vindictively mar my brilliant prospects. Perhaps it is folly to admitthat a few injurious words from you could turn his highness against me; but I am frank with you.
“Of course, I might laugh your accusations to scorn, but the prince might—well, your words might hurt me, for that man is as proud as Lucifer, although his absurd infatuation, which he calls love, induces him to lay all his earthly possessions, all his ancient prejudices, at the feet of a ‘singing-woman.’ With ten thousand pounds you will be rich; you will begin a new life, be happy with some meek-spirited, pretty Griselda, who may fly to fulfil your slightest wish or command.”
She had spoken so rapidly that, as she paused, her breath came in quick gasps. For the first time since she had entered on this conversation, her heart beat violently.
“You think I would sell my soul for ten thousand pounds,” Leonardo Gilardoni slowly said—“my soul and yours, my wife? I decline.”
“You do not mean it! You say so that I may double the price!” exclaimed the signora. “No. Speak. What sum do you ask to fall in with my wishes?”
Gilardoni looked fixedly into the luminous eyes so eagerly fastened upon him, as if he would read the innermost thoughts they so partially revealed.
“You know me well enough, you say, to be aware that once I have made up my mind to what is right, nothing will turn me from it,” he coldly replied. “I say distinctly that you are my wife, by all the laws of Heaven and man, and while I live you cannot marry any other. I refuse to comply with your infamous desire. I have said it. Had I the means, I would go to South America, to seek your brother, who could prove our marriage. What have you done with the book you stole?”
A sudden thought seized Lucia Guiscardini. Paul Desfrayne had surely discovered her previous marriage, and was about to send Gilardoni in search of the Padre Josef. If so, she was probably ruined. Her plan had been to rid herself by bribery of Gilardoni, and then to make a proposition to Paul Desfrayne, making it a matter of mutual interest to keep the second marriage a dead secret.
Only too well she knew that once Gilardoni had saidno, it would be impossible to persuade him to say yes. If these two men—he and his master—combined against her, adieu to her dazzling hopes. She had trusted that Gilardoni’s evident poverty would render him a willing accomplice to her nefarious scheme, and now she was furious at her failure.
In the event of finding her husband utterly intractable, she had designed another and infinitely darker course, which she resolved to carry into execution. For a few moments she remained silent, ignoring Gilardoni’s direct question, and then she merely said:
“Good-by, then! We shall probably never meet again. I defy you! I hope your spite may not be able to hurt me; but I do not fear you. My offer was made to save myself annoyance. Say what you can, the worst your vindictive fancy may invent, your words will be but empty air. Proof you have none. Go on your preposterous chase if you will. I care not.”
She held out her hand mockingly. As she expected, Gilardoni refused to clasp it, and, in affected anger at his repulse, she struck him lightly, her closed fingers passing across his wrist. Then she turned, and, before Gilardoni had time either to speak or detain her, she had gained the road.
The terrible deed she had contemplated being accomplished beyond human recall, the miserable woman was seized with a kind of terror and exhaustion. Having placed herself out of sight, she sat down by a great tree, creeping under its shelter so as to remain unseen by any one who might be passing. Daring to the last degree of recklessness in plotting, she yet lacked the iron nerves that were needed to support her in her criminal schemes. Faint and exhausted, she stayed here until some time after nightfall, and then fled toward the station.
As Captain Desfrayne passed, she was unable to recognize him, his face and form being shrouded in darkness within the vehicle, and when he had alighted and pursued her, she had not dared to look back.
Gilardoni had remained motionless when she left him, immersed in painful thoughts.
“Good Heaven!” he said aloud; “and I once loved thiswoman! It would not be spite nor hate; but were she to trap any innocent man to his ruin, it would be my duty to speak.”
He clasped his hands above his head in a transport of grief, and then, for the first time, felt a slight pain. He glanced at his left wrist, and found it smirched with crimson blood. The wound, he supposed, had been inflicted by the large diamond ring he had noticed on his wife’s finger.
Binding his handkerchief about the wrist, he turned to retrace his steps. He would have regarded that faint scratch very differently had he known that his life-blood was already imbued with a subtle narcotic poison emanating from one of the stones in that ring.
As he entered his master’s rooms he was conscious of a strange faintness and an unpleasant burning of the tongue. He had found some difficulty in ascending the staircase, and had scarcely lighted the lamp, when he crept into the second apartment, and threw himself on a couch, feeling as if utterly exhausted.
“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he muttered, passing his hand over his forehead. “I have taken nothing that could hurt me. I suppose it’s a reaction. That was a painful meeting with—with my wife. May Heaven forgive her all her wickedness toward me, though—though——Strange, this weakness seems to increase, and my thoughts are wandering.”
The faintness grew worse, so did the burning in his mouth and throat. The unhappy man rose, and endeavored to drink some water, but the effort to swallow was too painful.
“May Heaven forgivemeall my sins!” he murmured. “I believe I am dying. Dying!” he wildly repeated, raising himself suddenly, and looking about distractedly, then glancing down at his hand. “Dying! She has destroyed me. Oh, Lucia—Lucia—Lucia!”
Burning tears forced their way as he sank back. By degrees he floated into a kind of sleep, and then he forgot everything.
And as he lay dead in the silence of that lonely room,the woman who had so remorselessly slain him was hastening back to the great city, there to still further shape out the path that was to conduct her——
Whither—whither?
To the almost regal chambers of her princely lover, or to the condemned cell of the manslayer?