CHAPTER XIV
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."