IN WHICH I MAKE A RESOLVE
The great broad plain which lies between marble-built Pisa and the
sea was flooded by the golden Italian sunset, and the background of
the serrated Apennines loomed a dark purple in the distance as we
approached the long breakwater which protects Leghorn from the sea.
Leaning over the rail, I gazed upon the white sun-blanched Tuscan
town, and recognised the gay Passeggio, with its avenue of dusky
tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses, with their green
_persiennes_, and Pancaldi's, and other baths, built out upon the
rocks into the sea. Years ago, when at the convent, we had gone
there each summer, a dozen or so girls at a time, under the care of
Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so
from the intolerable heat of July in the Val d'Ema. How well I
remembered that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, best
known to those happy, light-hearted, improvident Livornesi by its
ancient name, the Passeggio! And what long walks we girls used to
have over the rocks beyond Antignano, or scrambling climbs up to the
shrine of the miracle-working Virgin at Montenero! Happy, indeed,
were those summer days with my girl friends--girls who had now, like
myself, grown to be women--who had married, and had experienced all
the trials and bitterness of life. I thought of her who was my best
friend in those past days--pretty, black-haired, unassuming Annetta
Ceriani, from Arezzo. She had left the college the same week as
myself, and our parting had been a very sad one. In a year, however,
she had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Romolo Annibale
Cesare Sigismondo, Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles,
was "principe Romano, principe di Pinerolo, conte di Lucca, nobile di
Monte Catini." Truly, the Italian nobility do not lack titles. But
poor Annetta! Her life had been the reverse of happy, and the last
letter I had received from her, dated from Venice, contained the
story of a woman heart-broken.
Yes, as I stood there on the deck of the _Vispera_, approaching the
old sun-whitened Tuscan port, many were the recollections of those
long-past careless days which crowded upon me--days before I had
known how weary was the world, or how fraught with bitterness was
woman's love.
Already the light was shining yellow in the square old lighthouse,
although the sun had not altogether disappeared. Half-a-dozen fine
cruisers of the British Mediterranean Squadron were lying at anchor
in line, and we passed several boats full of sun-tanned men on the
way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the British sailor is
always a welcome guest in Leghorn.
The situation was becoming desperate. How was I to act? At least, I
should now ascertain who had been the old man's companion in the
deck-cabin on the previous night, for he and this stranger would no
doubt go ashore together.
Old Mr. Keppel was standing near me, speaking again to the captain,
giving him certain orders, when Gerald, spruce as usual in blue
serge, came up and leaned at my side.
"Ulrica says you know Leghorn quite well. You must be our guide.
We're all going ashore after dinner. What is there to amuse one in
the evening?"
"There is opera at the Goldoni always. One pays only four lire for a
box to seat six," I said.
"Impossible!" he laughed incredulously. "I shouldn't care to sit out
music at that price."
"Ah, there I must differ," I replied. "It is as good as any you'll
find in Italy. Remember, here is the home of opera. Why, the
Livornesi love music so intensely that it is no unusual occurrence
for a poor family to make shift with a piece of bread and an onion
for dinner, so as to save the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera.
Mascagni is Livornese, and Puccini, who composed La Boheme, was also
born close here. In 'cara Livorno,' as the Tuscan loves to call it,
one can hear the best opera for five-pence."
"Compare that with prices in London!"
"And our music, unfortunately, is not so good," I said.
"Shall we go to this delightfully inexpensive opera to-night? It
would certainly be an experience."
"I fear I shall not," I answered. "I'm not feeling very well."
"I'm extremely sorry," he said, with quick apprehension. "Is there
anything I can get you?"
"No, nothing, thank you," I answered. "I feel a little faint, that's
all."
We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and those very
inquisitive gentlemen--the Italian Customs officers--had come on
board. A few minutes later the bell rang for dinner, and all
descended to the saloon, eager to get the meal over and go ashore.
On the way down Ulrica took me aside.
"Gerald has told me you are ill, my dear. I've noticed how pale and
unlike yourself you've been all day. What's the matter? Tell me."
"I--I can't. At least, not now," I managed to stammer, as I hastened
to slip from her side.
I wanted to be alone to think. Keppel's companion of the previous
night, the man to whom the conception of that diabolical plot was
due, was still on board. But who was he?
I ate nothing, and was ready to take my seat in the first boat that
went ashore. I had excused myself from making one of the party at
the opera, after giving all necessary directions, and, on pretence of
going to a chemist's to make a purchase, I separated myself from
Ulrica, Gerald, and Lord Eldersfield in the Via Grande, the principal
thoroughfare.
How next to act I knew not. No doubt Keppel's intention was to send
on board some explosive destined to sink the _Vispera_ to the bottom
with all on board. At all hazards, the yacht must not sail. Yet,
how was it possible that I could prevent it without making a full
statement of what I had overheard?
I entered the pharmacy and purchased the first article that came into
my mind. Then, returning into the street, I wandered on, plunged in
my own distracting thoughts. Keppel had gone alone to the telegraph
office in a cab.
The soft, balmy Italian night had fallen, and the white streets and
piazzas of Leghorn were filled, as they always are at evening, with
the light-hearted crowds of idlers; men with their hats stuck
jauntily askew, smoking, laughing, gossiping; and women, dark-haired,
black-eyed, the most handsome in all Italy, each with a mantilla of
black lace or some light-coloured silk as head-covering, promenading
and enjoying the _bel fresco_ after the toil and burden of the day.
None in all the world can surpass in beauty the Tuscan women--dark,
tragic, with eyes that flash quickly in love or hatred, with figures
perfect, and each with an easy-swinging gait that a duchess might
envy. It was Suor Angelica who had once repeated to me the verse
written about them by an old Florentine poet:
"S'è grande, è oziosa,
S'è piccola, è viziosa;
S'è, bella, è vanitosa;
S'è brutta, è fastidiosa."
Every type, indeed, is represented in that long, single street at
night--the dark-haired Jewess, the classic Greek, the thick-lipped
Tunisian, the pale-cheeked Armenian, and the beautiful Tuscan, the
purest type of beauty in all the world.
Once again, after several years, I heard, as I walked onward, the
soft sibilations of the Tuscan tongue about me, the gay chatter of
that city of sun and sea, where, although half the population is in a
state of semi-starvation, hearts are still as light as in the days
when "cara Livorno" was still prosperous. But alas! it has sadly
declined. Its manufactures, never very extensive, have died cut; its
merchant princes are ruined, or have deserted it, and its trade has
ebbed until there is no work for those honest, brown-faced men, who
are forced to idle upon the stone benches in the piazza, even though
their wives and children are crying for bread.
The splendid band of the garrison was playing in the great Piazza
Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag
was waving, because the warships were in the port. The music was in
acknowledgment of the fact that the British Marine Band had played
before the Prefecture on the previous evening. The Consulate was
illuminated, and on the balcony, in company with a large party, was
the Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson--known to every
English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and
happiest of good fellows, as well as a distinguished author and
critic. I recognised him, looking cool in his suit of white linen,
but hurried on across the great square, feeling that no time should
be lost, and yet not knowing what to do.
The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie, and the curious events
which followed, coupled with the startling discovery I had made on
the previous night, had completely unnerved me. As I tried to
reflect calmly and logically, I came to the conclusion that it was
eminently necessary to ascertain the identity of the man who held the
millionaire beneath his thumb--the man who had suggested the blowing
up of the yacht. This man intended, without a doubt, to leave the
vessel under cover of night; or, if he were actually one of the
guests, he could, of course, easily excuse himself and leave the
others, as I had done.