The Sign of the Seven Sins

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 recognized the gay Passeggio with its avenue of dusty tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses with their green persiennes, and Pancaldi’s and the 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 kindly care of Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so the intolerable heat of July in the Lily City. How well I remembered that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, but 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. A thought of her who was my best friend in those past days recurred to me--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 hard one. In a year, however, she had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Cesare Sigismondo, Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles, was “Principe Romano, Principe di Pinerolo, Marchese di Casentino, Conte di Lucca, Nobile di Monte Catina.” 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 high, square old light-house, 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 liberty men on their way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the British man-o’-warsman is always a welcome guest in Leghorn. At last, when within a quarter of a mile of the breakwater, I heard old Mr. Keppel, who stood close to me, speaking to the captain. “I shall send a couple of packets on board in the morning, and also a box, Davis. Put the latter below in a safe place. Lock it up somewhere.” “Very well, sir,” answered the man, in his smart uniform, leaning over the rail of the bridge. “And we sail for Naples after the things are on board?” “Yes. And wait there for me.” “Very well, sir.” And then he turned to give some directions to the helmsman. 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 they 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, leaning at my side, said: “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?” “The gay season hasn’t commenced yet,” I responded. “But there is opera at the Goldoni always. One pays only a dollar for a box to seat six.” “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 in order to pay the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera. Mascagni is Livornese, and Puccini, who composed ‘La Boheme,’ was also born close here. No. In ‘cara Livorno,’ as the Tuscan loves to call it, one can hear the best opera for ten cents.” “Different to our prices in America.” “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 am 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. “A little faintness, that’s all.” We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and a boat had been lowered. Four of the crew were in it, ready to take their owner ashore. “Good-by--good-by, all!” I heard old Benjamin Keppel saying in his hearty manner, and, turning, met him face to face. “Good-by, Miss Rosselli!” he shouted to me, laughing as he raised his cap. “I shall be back with you at Naples.” I gripped the rail and acknowledged the salute of the man who was leaving the vessel he had doomed to destruction. All the guests were on deck, and many were the good wishes sent after him as he sprang into the boat and the men pulled off towards the port. Then a few moments 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, saying: “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, and at once escaped her. I wanted to be alone to think. Keppel had gone ashore alone. His 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, but was 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 Stoneborough in the Via Grande, the principal thoroughfare. How next to act I knew not. Keppel had expressed his intention of sending a box on board, and there could be no doubt that it would contain some explosive destined to send the Vispera to the bottom. 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. 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 merry, 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 of some bright-colored silk as a head-covering, promenading and enjoying the refreshing fresco after the toil and burden of the day. None in all the world can surpass in beauty those 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 rhyme that one of our old Florentine writers had written of them,-- “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 those years, I heard as I walked onward the soft sibillations of the Tuscan tongue about me, the gay chatter of that city of sun and sea, where although half the population are in a state of semi-starvation their 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 out, 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 Bersagliéri was playing in the great Piazza Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag was waving because the war-ships were in the port. The music was there in acknowledgment of the fact that the British marine band had played before the Prefecture on the previous evening. The Consulate was illuminated, and at the balcony with a large party was Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson, known to every English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and happiest of good fellows. But I hurried on across the great square, feeling that no time should be lost, yet not knowing what to do. The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie and the curious events which followed, coupled with this 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 Steel King beneath his thrall--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. I entered the Hotel Giappone, where I had once stayed with some friends after leaving the convent, and after succeeding in changing some money, went forth again among the chattering crowd, when suddenly it occurred to me that if our host intended to leave Leghorn he must leave by train. Therefore I entered a tram and alighted at the station. Several trains had, I ascertained, left for Pisa in connection with the main line from Genoa to Rome since Keppel had landed. Perhaps, therefore, he had already left. The great platform was dimly lit and deserted, for no train would depart, they told me, for another hour. It was the mail, and ran to Pisa to catch the night express to the French frontier at Modane. Should I remain and watch? The idea occurred to me that if the unseen individual who had been present in the deck-house intended to come ashore he would certainly meet Keppel somewhere, where the explosive would be prepared and packed in the box ready to be sent on board early in the morning. Most probably the pair would contrive to catch this, the last train from Leghorn. So I resolved to remain. The time dragged on. The short train was backed into the station, but no passenger appeared. A controller inquired if I intended to go to Pisa, but I replied in the negative. At last one or two passengers approached leisurely, as is usual in Italy, carrying wicker-covered flasks of Chianti to drink en voyage; the inevitable pair of white-gloved carabineers strolled up and down, and the train prepared to start. Of a sudden, almost before I was aware of it, I was conscious of two figures approaching. One was that of old Mr. Keppel, hot and hurrying, carrying his small hand-bag, and the other the figure of a woman