"Mother likes all the old fogies, Mr Leaf, while I like to see life.
Out yonder at Antigniano they are all old frumps, and the men never
remain there. They always take the tram and come into Leghorn."
Like a flash it occurred to me to make an inquiry of them.
"By the way," I said, "you know all the Americans and English here. Do
you happen to know a man named Miller?"
"Miller? No," was the American woman's reply.
"Haven't you mistaken the name? There's a man named Milner, who has a
daughter, a tall, rather smart dark-haired girl."
"Milner," I repeated, recognising at once that in Leghorn the final "r"
was added. "Yes, perhaps that's the name. He's a tall elderly man--a
gentleman. His daughter's name is Lucie."
"I know her," exclaimed Gemma quickly. "We've met them lots of times.
They live in a flat at the other end of the promenade, towards the
town."
"I want to call. Do you know the number?"
"Number nine in the Viale," replied the Countess promptly, with her
slight American accent. "Second floor. Where did you meet them?"
"In England. I returned from London only last night."
"I don't think they are here," she said. "The week we arrived at the
villa, nearly two months ago, Lucie called and said that they were going
to spend the summer up at Roncegno, in the Trentino, a place that is
becoming quite fashionable with the Italians. They left Leghorn, and I
haven't seen them since."
"I believe they are back," I said. "Anyhow I will leave a card."
"Because the handsome Lucie has attracted you, eh?" asked the Countess,
laughing mischievously.
"Not at all," I protested. "I'm a confirmed bachelor, as you've known
long ago."
"Ah! men always say so," she remarked. "Why do you take such an intense
interest in Milner and his daughter?"
"Because they were kind to me in England," I replied briefly.
"Well--he's a peculiar man," she said. "They have very few friends, I
believe. He's a gentleman, no doubt, but in very reduced circumstances.
My own idea is that when Lucie's dresses are paid for he has very great
difficulty in making both ends meet. He's a bit of a mystery, they
say."
"You surprise me," I said. "I had no idea he was as poor as that."
It was evident that James Harding Miller feigned poverty in Leghorn, in
order to conceal his true calling.
"The house is sufficient indication that they are not overburdened by
money. In fact, a couple of years ago Lucie used to give English
lessons to Baroness Borelli's two girls. Nowadays, however, Milner
himself is away a great deal. I've often met him in the Corso in Rome,
idling about outside the Aragno, and in Florence, Milan and other
places, while Lucie stays at home with their old servant Marietta."
"Why do you say he's a peculiar man?"
"Well--I have heard it whispered among the Italians here that he
associates with some queer people sometimes. Of course, he's an
Inglese, and quite in ignorance of what they really are. The
better-class Italians have nothing to do with him, and as the English
colony here is so very small, poor Lucie's life can't be a very gay one.
Indeed, I'm often sorry for the girl. Except for visiting us
sometimes, and going to the houses of two or three of the English
business people here, they go nowhere. Milner, when he's here, spends
each morning alone on the Squarci baths, reading the newspaper, and in
the evening takes one turn up and down the promenade."
"Yes," declared her daughter. "He's a most lonely, melancholy man."
"There's some mystery behind him, I suppose," remarked the Countess.
"We have so many queer English and Americans out here nowadays. Italy
is really becoming the dumping-ground for all people who, from some
reason or other, find their own country too sultry for them. Take Rome,
for instance: why, the place is simply full of people one can't possibly
know, while Florence is proverbial for undesirables."
"But you don't think this man Milner is an undesirable, do you? I mean
you've never heard anything against him?"
"Well, nothing absolutely direct," was her answer. "Only if I were you
I wouldn't be too friendly with them. It will go very much against you,
more especially in Italian society."
"Italian society, Countess, doesn't interest me really very much," I
exclaimed. "I know you think me a terrible barbarian, but remember I'm
only a wanderer and a Bohemian at that."
"Ah!" she sighed, "you men are free. It is unfortunately not so with us
women, especially with a woman like myself, who, though I love freedom,
am compelled to exist in this narrow-minded little world of the Italian
aristocracy. I need not tell you how exclusive we all are--you know us
too well. Why, when an English royal prince or princess comes to an
Italian city hardly any one ever goes out of his way to call. They
actually wait for the royalty to make the first call! And if you hear
three school-girls of fourteen talking together, you will most certainly
hear them discussing the _nobilta_, and sneering at their schoolfellows
whose parents are without titles. Yes, Mr Leaf," she sighed, "ours is
a strange complex life here, in modern Italy."
The Countess was, I knew, "hipped" and embittered. Her husband, a
good-looking good-for-nothing fellow, who spent his days idling in the
Via Tornabuoni, in Florence, and his nights gambling at the Florence
club, possessed a large estate with a fine old castle, away in the
Cresentino, but every metre of the land was mortgaged, and in order to
redeem the place had married Mary Plant, of Boston, Mass., the daughter
of a rich coal-owner. Within three years they had been separated, and
now only at rare intervals they met, sometimes finding themselves at the
same entertainment in one or other of the palaces in Rome or Florence
and greeting each other as comparative strangers. Like thousands of
other similar cases in Italy, she had bought her title very dearly, and
now bitterly regretted that she had ever been attracted by a handsome
face and elegant manner, that she had been entrapped by a man who had
never entertained one single spark of affection for her, and who had, in
his heart, despised her on account of her readiness to sacrifice herself
and her money for the sake of becoming a Countess.
We continued to chat, for it was delightful there, with the clear blue
waves lapping close to our feet. In the course of conversation she and
her daughter told me several other interesting facts concerning the
Millers. They had lived in Rome for two successive winter seasons, the
Countess said, in a little furnished flat in the Via Grottino, one of
those narrow streets that lead off the Corso.
Was it while there, I wondered, that Lucie had become acquainted with
the great politician, Nardini--the man who had died refusing to give her
her liberty?
I longed to approach the subject, yet there were matters upon which I
could not touch while Gemma was present.
So I sat there idling, laughing and chatting, and recalling the last
occasion we had met, up in the pine woods of Camaldoli in the previous
August, when I was staying at their hotel, where we had many mutual
friends.
I had known the Countess fully ten years, when Gemma was but a child in
the nursery, and when she was still a very pretty young woman.
Somehow I saw that she was anxious that I should not know the Milners.
Why, I could not discern.
"If I were you," she said, in a low, confidential tone, when she had
sent her daughter along to the kiosque for a newspaper, "I shouldn't
call upon that man. I haven't told Gemma, but I've dropped the girl.
After she called upon me the last time I sent her a letter hinting that
I should prefer that she did not call again."
"Why?" I asked, much surprised.
"Well, I have a reason," was her response. "Quite lately I've
discovered something that requires a good deal of explaining away. To
tell you the truth, I believe Milner is sailing under entirely false
colours, and besides I have no intention that Gemma should associate
with his daughter any further. Take my advice, Godfrey, and don't go
near them."
"Then what have you heard?"
"I've heard a good deal that surprises me," replied the Countess. "In
fact, the whole affair is a very grave scandal, and I, for one, don't
mean to be dragged into it."