The Mysterious Mr. Miller
Page 28
smartly dressed people; the men in cleanwhite linen suits and the women in white muslins, mostly of the Italianaristocracy from Florence, Bologna, Milan and Rome.
It was delightful there, seated in a chair with the waves lapping lazilyat one's feet, and the brown sails of the anchovy and sardine boatsshowing afar against the dark purple island of Gorgona in the distance.On every hand was the gay chatter of men--for Italians are dreadfulchatterboxes--the light laughter of pretty dark-eyed women, or theromping of a few children in the care of their nurses.
I was fatigued after my journey, and as I idled there my eyes were openabout me to recognise any friends.
Suddenly, approaching me, I saw a stout elderly lady in white,accompanied by a slim young girl of seventeen, whom I recognised as theCountess Moltedo and her daughter Gemma. I rose instantly, removed myhat, and drawing my heels together in Italian fashion, bowed.
"Ah! my dear Signor Leaf!" cried the Countess in English merrily, forshe was American born, and like so many other countesses in Italy hadbeen attracted by a title, and had long ago found her husband to be aworthless fellow who had married her merely in order to replenish hisimpoverished purse. "Why, this is a surprise! Gemma was speaking ofyou only the other day, and wondered if you had deserted Italyentirely."
"No, Countess," I replied. "Once one really knows Italy, she is one'smistress--and you can never desert her."
And I took the young girl's hand she offered, and bowed over it.
"You are here at your villa at Antigniano, I suppose?" I went on.
"Yes. We've been here already two months. It is too hot still toreturn to Rome. The season has been a most gay one, for the new spa,the Acque della Salute, has, they say, attracted nearly twenty thousandpersons more than last year."
"Leghorn in summer is always charming," I said, as I drew chairs forthem at the edge of the water, and they seated themselves. "And yourvilla is so very delightful, out there, beyond the noise and turmoil."
"Yes, we find it very nice. Myself, I prefer the quiet village life ofAntigniano to this place. We only come up here at rare intervals, whenGemma gets dull."
The pretty dark-eyed young girl laughing at me said:--
"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 neverremain 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. Doyou 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 adaughter, 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--agentleman. 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 thetown."
"I want to call. Do you know the number?"
"Number nine in the Viale," replied the Countess promptly, with herslight 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 thevilla, nearly two months ago, Lucie called and said that they were goingto spend the summer up at Roncegno, in the Trentino, a place that isbecoming quite fashionable with the Italians. They left Leghorn, and Ihaven'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 knownlong ago."
"Ah! men always say so," she remarked. "Why do you take such an intenseinterest 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, Ibelieve. 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 greatdifficulty in making both ends meet. He's a bit of a mystery, theysay."
"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, inorder to conceal his true calling.
"The house is sufficient indication that they are not overburdened bymoney. In fact, a couple of years ago Lucie used to give Englishlessons to Baroness Borelli's two girls. Nowadays, however, Milnerhimself 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 otherplaces, 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 heassociates with some queer people sometimes. Of course, he's anInglese, and quite in ignorance of what they really are. Thebetter-class Italians have nothing to do with him, and as the Englishcolony 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 ussometimes, and going to the houses of two or three of the Englishbusiness people here, they go nowhere. Milner, when he's here, spendseach morning alone on the Squarci baths, reading the newspaper, and inthe 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. Italyis really becoming the dumping-ground for all people who, from somereason 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 possiblyknow, while Florence is proverbial for undesirables."
"But you don't think this man Milner is an undesirable, do you? I meanyou've never heard anything against him?"
"Well, nothing absolutely direct," was her answer. "Only if I were youI 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," Iexclaimed. "I know you think me a terrible barbarian, but remember I'monly a wanderer and a Bohemian at that."
"Ah!" she sighed, "you men are free. It is unfortunately not so with uswomen, especially with a woman like myself, who, though I love freedom,am compelled to exist in this narrow-minded little world of the Italianaristocracy. I need not tell you how exclusive we all are--you know ustoo well. Why, when an English royal prince or princess comes to anItalian city hardly any one ever goes out of his way to call. Theyactually wait for the royalty to make the first call! And if you hearthree school-girls of fourteen talking together, you will most certainlyhear them discussing the _nobilta_, and sneering at their schoolfellowswhose parents are without titles. Yes, Mr Leaf," she sighed, "ours isa strange complex life here, in modern Italy."
The Countess was, I knew, "hipped" and embittered. Her husband, agood-looking good-for-nothing fellow, who spent his days idling in theVia Tornabuoni, in Florence, and his nights gambling at the Florenceclub, possessed a large estate with a fine old castle, away in theCresentino, but every metre of the land was mortgaged, and in order toredeem the place had married Mary Plant, of Boston, Mass., the daughterof a rich coal-owner. Within three years they had been separated, andnow only at rare intervals they met, sometimes finding themselves at thesame entertainment in one or other of the palaces in Rome or Florenceand greeting each other as comparative strangers. Like thousands ofother similar cases in Italy, she had bought her title very dearly, andnow bitterly regretted that she had ever been attracted by a handsomeface and elegant manner, that she had been entrapped by a man who hadnever entertained one si
ngle spark of affection for her, and who had, inhis heart, despised her on account of her readiness to sacrifice herselfand her money for the sake of becoming a Countess.
We continued to chat, for it was delightful there, with the clear bluewaves lapping close to our feet. In the course of conversation she andher daughter told me several other interesting facts concerning theMillers. They had lived in Rome for two successive winter seasons, theCountess said, in a little furnished flat in the Via Grottino, one