ofthose narrow streets that lead off the Corso.
Was it while there, I wondered, that Lucie had become acquainted withthe great politician, Nardini--the man who had died refusing to give herher liberty?
I longed to approach the subject, yet there were matters upon which Icould not touch while Gemma was present.
So I sat there idling, laughing and chatting, and recalling the lastoccasion we had met, up in the pine woods of Camaldoli in the previousAugust, when I was staying at their hotel, where we had many mutualfriends.
I had known the Countess fully ten years, when Gemma was but a child inthe 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 hadsent her daughter along to the kiosque for a newspaper, "I shouldn'tcall 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 thatI should prefer that she did not call again."
"Why?" I asked, much surprised.
"Well, I have a reason," was her response. "Quite lately I'vediscovered something that requires a good deal of explaining away. Totell you the truth, I believe Milner is sailing under entirely falsecolours, and besides I have no intention that Gemma should associatewith his daughter any further. Take my advice, Godfrey, and don't gonear them."
"Then what have you heard?"
"I've heard a good deal that surprises me," replied the Countess. "Infact, the whole affair is a very grave scandal, and I, for one, don'tmean to be dragged into it."
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE HOME OF THE MYSTERIOUS ENGLISHMAN.
At half-past five o'clock that same afternoon, heedless of the CountessMoltedo's mysterious warning, I was standing by Lucie's side at the longFrench window that opened upon the balcony. Below, hundreds ofvisitors, mostly dressed in white, as is the mode of Leghorn, werepromenading in the little pine wood that lies between the roadway andthe sea, while beyond stretched the broad glassy Mediterranean aglow inthe fiery rays of the Tuscan sunset, the mystic islands showing darkpurple on the far-off horizon.
It was the hour when all Leghorn was agog after the _siesta_, thatperiod from two o'clock till five, when all _persiennes_ are closed, thestreets are silent and deserted, and the city dazzlingly white liespalpitating beneath the blazing sun that blanches everything--the hourfor the evening bath, and the stroll and gossip before dinner.
Perhaps nowhere else in all Europe can be seen such a living panorama ofbeautiful girls as there, upon the Passeggio at Leghorn on a summer'sevening at six o'clock, those dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome-featuredchildren of the people walking in twos and threes, with figure and gaitperfect, and each with her _santuzza_, or silken scarf of pale blue,mauve, pink, or black, twisted around her head with the ends throwncarelessly over the shoulders.
As the white veil is part of the costume of the Turkish woman so is the_santuzza_ part of that of the merry, laughing coral-pickers, millinersand work-girls of Leghorn. It enhances their marvellous beauty and isat the same time the badge of their servitude.
Of all the people in the whole of proud old Tuscany assuredly none wereso easy-going and vivacious, none so light-hearted and full of poetry asthose Livornese people passing to and fro below us. The more I haddwelt among the Tuscan people the more I loved them. There is surely noother people on the face of the earth so entirely lovable, even withtheir many sad faults, as they; none so gregarious, so neighbourly, socourteous, kindly or poetic, none so content upon the most meagre farethat ever held body and soul together.
Your _popolano_ even in his rags will bring a flower to a woman with theair of a king, and he will resent an insult with a withering scorn towhich no regal trappings could lend further dignity. It is the landwhere Love still reigns just as supreme as it did in the days of LaFiammetta, of Beatrice, of Laura, or of Romeo--the Land of _Amore_--thesun-kissed land where even in this prosaic century of ours men and womenlive and die--often by the knife-thrust, be it said--for "_amore_," thatking who is greater and more powerful even than good Vittorio Emanuelehimself.
At Lucie's side I stood in silence, gazing down upon the gay scenebelow. In those people's eyes were always dreams, and in the memoriesthere was always greatness.
A writer has asked with deep truth, who, having known fair Tuscany, canforsake her for lesser love? Who, having once abode with her, can turntheir faces from the rising sun and set the darkness of the Pisanmountains betwixt herself and them?
Yes. I had been back again in Tuscany for those few brief hours only,yet the glamour of Italy had again fallen upon me, that same glamourthat holds so many of the English-speaking race--irrevocably compellingthem to return again and again to those amethystine hills and mysticaldepths of seven-chorded light--the land that is grey-green with sloesand rich with trailing vines, the land of art and antiquity, of youthand of loveliness.
"And your father went on from Pisa?" I said at last, turning to myneat-waisted little companion. "He did not come home with you?"
"No. He has some urgent business down in Rome, and sent me back here towait for him."
"When does he arrive?"
"He does not know. His business is very uncertain always. Sometimeswhen he goes away he's absent only three days, and at other times threemonths. Dear old dad is awfully tiresome. He never writes, andMarietta and I wait and wait, and wonder what's become of him."
"Is he staying with friends in Rome?"
"With Dr Gavazzi, a great friend of ours."
"You left Studland very suddenly," I said.
"Because of a telegram. We left at once, with hardly an hour to packup. But how did you know we had gone to Italy?"
"I called after you had left, and your aunt told me. I wanted to speakto you, Miss Miller," I added, turning to her seriously. "I came hereto Leghorn purposely to see you."
"It's surely a long way to travel," she said, turning her soft dark eyesupon mine and regarding me with wonder.
"Yes. But the reason I am here is to consult you regarding somethingwhich very closely concerns myself--regarding Ella."
"Ah! It was strange that she left us so suddenly," she remarked, "andstranger still the events of that night. I wonder who attacked her?She recognised her assailant, otherwise she would have said something tome. I've thought over it several times. The whole thing is an utterenigma. She evidently left us because she feared that her assailantwould either call to see her, or perhaps make another attempt upon her."
"Then she said nothing to you?"
"Absolutely not a word, even though when she came in she was halffainting. I naturally concluded that you and she had had some words,and therefore I made no inquiry."
"We had no words, Miss Miller," I said, in a low, serious voice. "Ourhearts were too full of tragedy for that."
"Of tragedy?" she cried. "What do you mean?"
"Ella is already engaged to be married."
"Engaged?" she cried. "Why, I thought she was to be yours? I wascongratulating you both!"
"No," I answered, my heart sinking. "Though we have come together againafter that long blank in both our lives, we are yet held apart by acruel circumstance. She is already engaged to be married to anotherman."
"But she will break it, never fear. Ella loves you--you can't doubtthat."
"I know. I know that. But it is an engagement she cannot break. Shewill be that man's wife in a month."
"You absolutely amaze me. She told me nothing of this, but on thecontrary led me to believe that she was still free, and that you were tobe her affianced husband."
"There is some reason--some secret reason why I cannot be," I said. "Itwas to discuss this point with you that I have travelled from London. Imust ask you to forgive me, Miss Miller, for troubling you with myprivate affairs, but you are, you know, Ella's most intimate and mostdevoted friend."
"Y
ou are not troubling me in the least," my companion declared. "We arefriends, you and I, and if I can help you, I will with pleasure do so."
"Then I want to ask you a few questions," I said eagerly. "First, tellme how long you have known Mr Gordon-Wright?"
"Oh! ever since I was quite a little girl. He used to give me francsand buy me bon-bons long ago in the old days in Paris. Why?"
"Because I had an idea that he might perhaps be a new acquaintance."
"Oh, dear no. My father and he have been friends for many years. Hecomes here to stay, sometimes for a couple of months at a time. He hasbad health, and his London doctor often