WHAT A CROSS DOG"OH, WHAT A CROSS LITTLE DOGGIE!"Click toENLARGE
Those white cliffs brought it all back to her, and she recalled how her father said,—
"England was your dear mother's home, and she loved it, but she is in a better home now; I must not wish her back again."
After that her life at Mrs. Baker's was dull and monotonous; going on and on day after day, week after week, year after year, with but little to mark the passing away of time.
Irene was not particularly attractive to strangers, and the passengers who turned upon Dorothy admiring glances, and even, in that foolish way some people have, exclaimed, "What a lovely child!" scarcely gave a thought to her companion.
"A plain girl," one lady said; "they cannot be sisters!"
Then one of the ladies ventured to put her hand on Nino's head, who was curled up under the rug which was tucked round both little girls' legs, with his head and ears and black nose just appearing. Nino growled, and Dorothy made a gesture as if to get a little farther away.
"Oh, what a cross little doggie!" was the remark.
"He is not cross," Dorothy said, pressing Nino closer.
"Don't you think so?" the lady said, in an offended tone. "Perhaps he has learned of his mistress to be cross."
She laughed, but Dorothy did not laugh, or even smile.
"He is a spoiled little dog," said the younger of the two ladies, reaching forward to give Nino another pat.
Another growl, followed this time by a snap.
"Horrid little beast!" was the next exclamation. "Children ought not to be allowed to take pet dogs about with them, to the annoyance of other people."
Dorothy edged away, closer and closer to Irene, who, to Dorothy's surprise, spoke out boldly.
"Nino did not growl till you touched him," she said; "no one ought to pat strange dogs."
"My dear, your opinion was neither asked for nor wanted," was the reply. And Dorothy struggled from the rug, and hastened to call her uncle, who was talking to a gentleman.
"Uncle Crannie, do come and move our seat; there are some very rude ladies who hate Nino."
But Canon Percival was busy talking, and did not immediately listen to Dorothy. Nino had toddled off to inspect the boat, and by some means, how no one could quite tell, had slipped over the side of the steamer, and was engulfed in the seething waves below. Irene saw what had happened, and cried out,—
"Oh! Nino has fallen through that open place. Nino will be drowned."
Then poor little Dorothy, turning, saw Irene rushing to the place, and called aloud,—
"Nino, Nino will be drowned! Nino, Nino, my Nino! will nobody save him? Oh, Uncle Crannie, Uncle Crannie, save him!"
FERRY
"It is only a dog!" the passengers on the steamer exclaimed, some with a sigh of relief, for at first it was rumoured it was a child.
"Only a dog!" and Canon Percival said that to stop the steamer and lower a boat was out of the question. They were much behind as it was, and there would be barely time to catch the train to Paris.
There was no sign of Nino, and the surging waters had closed over him. Poor Nino! Two or three fishing smacks were in sight, and almost within speaking distance, but there was no hope of saving him.
"Only a dog!" but the heart of his little mistress felt as if it would break. She rushed down into the cabin, and with a wild cry of distress threw herself into her mother's arms.
"Nino! my Nino is drowned. Oh, Nino! Nino!"
Poor Ingleby roused herself from her sickness to comfort her darling.
"Oh! Miss Dorothy, perhaps it is all for the best; he would have been unhappy, and in the way, and——"
But Dorothy refused comfort; and by the time they were in the train, which there was a great rush to catch at Boulogne, Dorothy was exhausted with crying, and was only too glad to be tucked up on a seat near her mother, and soothed to sleep and forgetfulness of her trouble.
Irene felt very sorry for Dorothy, but she had never had a home and pets, either dogs or cats; and she could not therefore enter into the extent of Dorothy's grief. Having offered all the consolation in her power, which had been repulsed, Irene resigned herself to a book that Ingleby had given her out of her well-stocked basket, and before long she, too, was asleep.
"Perhaps we can buy another white dog in Paris," Mrs. Acheson suggested to Canon Percival.
"Oh no! that would not answer. I don't think you want any more trouble, and if poor old Nino was troublesome sometimes, a young successor would be certain to be ten times more troublesome. As a rule, dogs are unwelcome visitors in other people's houses, and Lady Burnside may dislike the race. I am sorry for Dorothy's trouble, and for the poor little creature's end, but, as Ingleby says, there are worse sorrows than the loss of a dog."
"I suppose he was drowned at once," Mrs. Acheson said; "I do hope he did not struggle long for life."
"He was probably sucked under the steamer, and it would be over directly, let us hope." Then Canon Percival pulled his travelling-cap over his eyes, and was soon wrapped in profound slumber.
When the party arrived at Paris at Meurice's Hotel, Dorothy's tears broke forth afresh, and she had to be conveyed to her room by poor Ingleby, followed by Irene, who carried Miss Belinda and a number of other miscellaneous articles.
Mrs. Acheson, tired and worn out, was forbidden by Canon Percival to go to Dorothy, and again and again did Mrs. Acheson wish that she had followed her brother's advice, and left poor Nino at home.
It was not till the two children were left together, after partaking of crescent-shaped rolls and coffee, that Irene ventured to say anything to Dorothy.
"Don't cry any more, Dorothy; it makes other people so unhappy—and," said Irene, wisely, "it won't bring Nino back!"
"I know that! I know that! What do you tell methatfor? Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"Well," Irene said, "I want to tell you anything which will make you try to stop crying."
"Thatwon't," said Dorothy, crossly; "you never,neverhad a dog; how shouldyouknow what I feel?"
"I am not thinking so much about whatyoufeel," Irene said, with refreshing frankness; "I am thinking of your mamma, and how vexed and grievedsheis about you."
At this moment a door from another room opened, and, rattling a big bunch of keys, a pretty, brightfemme de chambrecame in.
"Ah!" she said, in her broken English, "Ah! what pains little ma'm'selle? Is she ill? Does she want a doctor?"
"No," Irene said; "her favourite little dog was drowned as we crossed the sea. He fell over the edge of the steamer, and we never saw him again."
"Ah! but that is sad; but oh! dearpetite," the kind woman said, going up to Dorothy, "think what grief my poor mother has, for my little brother Antoine fell into the river when all the flowers were coming out in May, and was dragged out cold and dead. Ah! but that was grief."
"How old was he?" Dorothy said.
"Five years old, ma'm'selle, and as lovely as an angel."
"What did your mother do?" Irene asked; "your poor mother!"
"She comforted my poor father, for it was when cutting the rushes with him that Antoine fell into the water. She dried her eyes, and tried to be cheerful for his, my father's, sake. The pain at her poor heart was terrible, terrible, but she said to me, 'Jeanette, I must hide the pain for the sake of the dear father. I only tell it to God.'"
Both the children listened to Jeanette's story with keen interest, and Irene asked,—
"How is your poor mother now?"
"She is calm, she is quiet; she does her work for them all, and her face has a look of peace. M. le Curé says it is the peace that comes of bearing sorrow, as the Lord Jesus bore the cross, and that is the way for us all; little and young, or old, it is the same. But I must go; there is so much work, night and day, day and night. See, dear little ma'm'selle"—and Jeanette foraged in the deep pocket of her white apron—"here are some bon-bons, chocolate of the best; see, all shining like silver."
She laid some round chocolate balls, covered with silver paper, in Dorothy's hand, and said,—
"Try to sleep away your sorrow, ma'm'selle, and wake fresh and happy for madame's sake."
"Every one tells me that," said Dorothy, "except mother. She does not tell me I don't care for her; she does not tell me to be happy for her sake. As if I could—could—forget my Nino!"
"No one thinks you can forget him," Irene said; "but if crying makes you ill, and makes your mamma miserable, you should try to stop."
Dorothy began to taste the excellence of Jeanette's chocolate, and offered some to Irene, saying,—
"That was a pretty story of Jeanette's about her poor little brother. Didn't you think so, Irene?"
"Yes," Irene said, thoughtfully; "I hope God will comfort Antoine's poor father."
"It's themotherthat cared the most—it was the mother who was so miserable."
"Ah! but it was the father who let the little boy slip into the water; it was a thousand times worse for him," Irene said.
NINO
"Well, grannie, is she coming?—is Irene coming?"
The question was asked eagerly by a boy of nine years old, who came into the pretty sitting-room of the Villa Lucia at San Remo, with his hands full of pale lilac crocuses. "Is she coming, grannie dear?"
"Do not rush into the room before your sister, Willy. See, you have knocked the basket out of her hand."
"And all my flowers are upset, grannie," said a little plaintive voice. "Every one!"
"Pick them up, Willy; do not be so rough. Ah! look!"—for a third and very important personage now toddled into the room, having struggled down from his nurse's arms; and before any one could stop him, Baby Bob had trampled on Ella's flowers, so that scarcely one was fit to present to grannie.
Quite unrepentant, and, indeed, unheeding of the cry—"Oh! Baby Bob! what are you doing?"—Baby Bob stumped up to grannie, and deposited in her lap a very much crushed and flattened crocus, saying—
"Kiss me for it; it's foryou."
"You darling!" Lady Burnside said. "Thank you. The poor little flower is sadly squeezed; but it is a token of baby's love all the same."
"Now, grannie," exclaimed Willy, "I want to hear about the cousin, because, you see, I never even thought about her till the other day, and I want to be ready—what do you call it?—preparedfor her."
"After all, Willy," said a grave-eyed maiden of twelve, who was lying on a couch in the window, "it won't make much difference toyouwhat Irene is like. A rough and noisy boy like you can't expect a stranger to put up with him aswedo."
"She's not a stranger," said Willy. "She is acousin, and who knows? she may like me better than anybody. She may be a jolly girl, who isn't made of sugar and salt, like Ella!"
"I am not made of sugar and salt," pleaded Ella, who had patiently gathered up her flowers, and was answering the call of their nurse to go with Baby Bob to take off his jacket and hat.
"No, that's true," said Willy; "you are all salt and vinegar, no sugar. Now, grannie, as the little ones are cleared off at last, tell me about the cousin."
But Lady Burnside said gravely, "Willy, I wish you would try to please me by being more considerate and gentle to your sisters."
"Ella is so whiny piny! she is always saying 'Don't', and 'Youshan't!'"
"Not always, Willy. Do you remember how ready she was to give up her turn to you to play draughts with Constance last evening? Do you remember how kindly she helped you to find those places in the map for Mr. Martyn?"
"Yes, grannie," Willy said. "I will go and tell her I am sorry I have been so cross; but sheisprovoking, and you don't knowhowprovoking."
"Well, making all allowance for that, I still think that you should never forget you are a boy and she is a little girl, and should for that very reason be gentle and forbearing, because it is a rule, which all noble-hearted people recognise, that the weak should be protected by the strong."
Willy gave his grandmother a rather rough kiss, and said,—
"I'll go and stroke Ella the right way, andwhenI come back youwilltell me about the cousin."
When Willy was gone, Constance laid down the book she had been reading, and said,—
"I do not envy Irene Packingham coming here. Willy is an awful tease, and if she is a prim little thing, turned out by a boarding-school, she will have a bad time of it."
"I think you are hard upon Willy, dear Constance," was the gentle reply. "He is a very high-spirited boy, very much like what your father was; and then Willy has the great disadvantage of having no brother near his own age."
"I think," said Constance, "he ought to go to school. Mr. Martyn thinks so also, I know. It is such a pity mother is so set against schools."
"There is a reason for it, and you must remember your mother's great grief."
"Poor Arthur's dying at school, you mean; but he was a very delicate boy, and Willy is as strong as a horse. I wish I were strong—half as strong! Here I lie, week after week, and my back does not get a bit better. I had the old pain this morning when I just moved to take my work from the little table;" and Constance's eyes filled with tears.
She was the eldest living child of Lady Burnside's eldest daughter, who had married a gentleman high in the Civil Service in India, and who had always lived there. As so often happens, the children could not bear the climate after a certain age, and they had been committed to their grandmother's care, who lived during the winter at San Remo, and of late years had not returned to England in the summer, but had spent the hot season in Switzerland.
The first detachment of children had been Arthur and Constance, both very delicate. Arthur had been sent to school near London, and had died there, to the great grief of his father and mother. He had caught a chill after a game of cricket, and died before any of his relations could reach him. Although no one was really to blame, poor Mrs. Montague found it hard to think so, and she lived in perfect dread of sending Willy to school, although he was a robust, vigorous boy.
The next detachment which came to be committed to Lady Burnside's care were little Ella and Baby Bob. Mrs. Montague had brought them to San Remo herself, now more than two years before this time, and with the help of Mrs. Crawley, the old and trusted nurse, who had lived with Lady Burnside for many years, their grandmother had been able to bear the burden of responsibility. Constance had lately complained of a pain in her back, and had been condemned to lie down on an invalid couch for the greater part of the day; but Willy and the baby were as healthy as could be desired, and Ella, although not strong, had seldom anything really amiss. She was a gentle, sensitive child, and apt to take a low view of herself and everybody else. But Lady Burnside did not encourage this, and while she held Willy in check, she was too wise to let Ella look upon herself as a martyr to her brother's teasing and boisterous mirth.
Presently Constance said,—
"Is Irene like Aunt Eva, I wonder?"
"Not if I may judge by her photograph," Lady Burnside said.
"Why did not Uncle Packingham let Irene live with you, grannie, as we do?"
"Perhaps he thought I could hardly undertake another grandchild, and you know Irene has a second mother; and her home will be eventually with her and her little brothers when her father leaves the service."
"And our home will be with father and mother one day," Constance said. "Not that I wish to leave you, dear grannie," Constance added. "Indeed, I often think I have the grandmotherly sort of feeling about mamma, and the motherly one about you!"
Lady Burnside laughed.
"Your mamma would be amused to hear that. I always think of her as so young and bright, and she and Aunt Eva were the light of my eyes."
"I hope Irene will be nice," Constance said; "and then there is another girl coming. We forget that."
"I do not forget it. I have been with Crawley this morning to look at the Villa Firenze; it is all in nice order for Mrs. Acheson, and there are two good Italian servants, besides Stefano and his wife, who, being an Englishwoman, understands the ways of the English thoroughly, especially of invalids, so I hope the travellers will be pleased when they arrive."
"What is the girl's name? do you remember, grannie?"
"Yes, her name is Dorothy. I saw her when she was a very little girl, and I remember she had beautiful silky hair; she was a pale, delicate child."
"Dear me!" said Constance. "Every one seems to be delicate. Irene Packingham is coming because of a cough, and so is Mrs. Acheson, and really the only strong ones are the boys. I suppose Irene takes after Aunt Eva in being delicate?"
"Yes; her father thought she would do well to escape the fogs of London, and have the advantage of the sunshine here; but I hope we shall send her back in the spring quite well."
"Takeher back, grannie, say take her back, for I should so like to go to England."
Lady Burnside shook her head. "I do not think I shall return to England next spring with the swallows. What a flight that is!" she said, looking out of the window, where a long line of birds could be seen flying across the blue sea.
"Happy birds!" said Constance, wearily; "I wish I could fly with them!"
Lady Burnside made no rejoinder to this, and sat knitting quietly by the wood fire, which was pleasant at sunset, when the chill is always great in southern countries. After half an hour's quiet, there were sounds of coming feet, and Baby Bob, in all the glory of a very short frock and wide sash, came in with a shout, which would have shaken the nerves of any one less accustomed to children than Lady Burnside.
Behind him came Ella, with a little work-basket in her hand, with which she went up to Constance's couch, and seating herself there, took out her little bit of cross-stitch, and settled herself to work.
Baby Bob took possession of his grandmother, and she had to go over one of his picture-books, and tell for the hundredth time the story of Mother Hubbard, which, illustrated with large coloured pictures, was Baby Bob's great favourite.
He would ponder over the pictures with wondering interest, and wish that the dog had not cheated, and made believe to be dead, because no good people or dogs could cheat. Crawley said so, and Maria said so, and Willy said so, Willy being the great authority to which Baby Bob always referred in any difficulty.
Willy was doing his work for Mr. Martyn in the study, and making up for lost time. This was his general habit. He would put off his lessons to the last moment, and then, as he said, "clear them all off in a twinkling."
Willy was clever and quick at everything, but this way of getting over work is not really satisfactory. Time and thought are necessary to fasten what is learned on the mind, and what is gathered up in haste, or, rather, sown in haste, does not take deep root.
That night, when Ella was getting ready for bed, she consulted Crawley about the new-comer.
"How is it we know so little of the cousin, Crawley?"
"Well, my dear, her papa married a lady who thinks schools and all that sort of thing necessary. At least, that's what your dear grandmamma has told me, and I daresay you'll find little Miss Packingham very forward with her books. So you must make haste and learn to read better. For you are getting on for eight years old."
Ella sighed.
"Icanread," she said, "and I can speak French and Italian; I daresay Irene can't do that."
"Well,that'snothing," said Crawley, "for I can talk French after my fashion, just because I have lived with my dear mistress out of England so long. But there's another little lady coming, you know. Her mamma knew your mamma. She used to be a pretty creature, and I daresay she's like her."
"She mayn't be like her, for grannie says Irene isn't like Aunt Eva. I want to see her. I wish to-morrow would come."
And Baby Bob murmured from his little bed in the corner, "Wish 'morrow would come."
SLEEPING BABY
To-morrow came, and brought with it the tired travellers, who arrived at San Remo, after a night journey from Marseilles, as Ingleby said, "more dead than alive."
This was a figure of speech on Ingleby's part, but there is no doubt that the two sleepy, tired, way-worn children who were lifted out of the carriage which had been sent to the station to meet them gave very little sign of life or interest in what happened.
Canon Percival, who took the management of everything, promptly ordered a bath and bed, and the kind English wife of Stefano showed every wish to be accommodating, and carried Dorothy herself to the room prepared for her and Irene.
Two little beds stood there, with a white net cage let down over them. The children were too sleepy to notice them then, but when Dorothy opened her eyes, she was greatly amused to see that she was looking through fine net, like the net she had seen made for fruit in England to protect it from wasps.
The western sun was lying across the garden before the villa when Dorothy felt it was time to get up. She called Irene, who answered at once,—
"Yes! what do you want? Can I help you?"
"I want to get up," said Dorothy, "but I can't get out of this white cage."
"Oh yes, you can," said Irene, who drew a bit of narrow ribbon, which hung inside her own bed, and then the net curtain was lifted, and she said,—
"Look! you have the same bit of ribbon; pull it!"
Dorothy did as she was told, and, to her delight, the net was raised in a pretty festoon.
"Isn't it funny?" she said; "what can the curtains be for? Are they just for prettiness?"
"No, for use; they are mosquito curtains; and I remember some very like them in India."
"What are mosquitoes?"
"Little gnats, very, very thin and small, but they sting dreadfully, and especially at night, and make big bumps on your forehead, and the curtains shut them out. I should like to get up now," Irene said; "for I ought to go to grannie."
"Oh, I don't want you to go to your grannie; you must stay with me."
"I don't think that would do," Irene said, "for father wished me to live with grannie and the cousins."
"I'm so sorry," Dorothy exclaimed, "for I know I shan't like the cousins. I think—I really do—you are the only playmate I ever cared for; not that we'veplayedtogether, but that's the word every one uses. Dr. Bell said I wanted playmates; and Ingleby says so; and Uncle Crannie says so; and so did that dreadful Mrs. Thompson. Ah! when I had my Nino, and Muff and Puff, I wanted nobody;" and Dorothy was beginning to cry, when Ingleby, hearing the children's voices, now came from another room, where she had begun unpacking, bearing in her arms a bundle of clean, fresh clothes for Dorothy.
"Well, you have been asleep ever since eleven, and it is nearly four o'clock. You must want your dinner, I am sure; and then Miss Packingham is to go to her grandmamma's house. Your box was taken there, my dear, and so I cannot give you fresh things, but I must brush your frock and bend your hat straight."
The children were ready in a few minutes, and presented a strong contrast, as usual.
Dorothy was a littletoosmart in her pale blue cashmere with grebe trimming, and it was hard to believe she had been in the train all night; for they had left Paris in the morning of the preceding day, and had reached San Remo at half-past ten. Irene, on the contrary, looked travel-worn, and she was a good deal more tired than Dorothy, who had slept off her fatigue and her sorrow for poor Nino's loss, and looked—so Ingleby said to herself—"as fresh as any daisy."
When the two little girls reached the sitting-room, which, like Lady Burnside's, opened on a verandah, they heard voices outside, and presently a boy and a girl stepped into the room.
Ella shrank back, but Willy, who never knew what shyness meant, said,—
"Grannie said we might come and fetch Irene—she is to come home now, if she is ready."
As Willy surveyed the two girls, he wondered which was his cousin. The thought passed through his mind, "I hope it is the pretty one!" and advancing, he said to Dorothy,—
"Grannie has sent us to take you to the Villa Lucia; are you ready?"
Ingleby, who was busy looking after the travelling basket, from which she was taking some of Dorothy's favourite biscuits, said,—
"Your cousin, Miss Packingham, had better take her dinner before she goes with you; perhaps you will sit down with her and Miss Dorothy. Now, my dear," Ingleby continued, addressing Dorothy, "I hope you will be able to fancy something," as Stefano brought in a tray with coffee and crescent-shaped rolls, and a dainty omelette done to a turn by his wife.
Willie now put his hand out to Irene, and said, in a tone in which there was a little ring of disappointment,—
"Thenyouare my cousin?"
"Yes," Irene said, "and I am very glad to come and see you all—and grannie."
"Do you remember her?" Willie asked.
"Just averylittle, but she always writes me very kind letters, so I feel as if I remembered her."
"Come, Ella, don't be so silly," Willy said, pushing his sister forward; "go and speak to Irene."
Irene took Ella's hand, and then, at Ingleby's advice, they all sat down to their meal together.
Two thick-edged white cups were brought by Stefano, and Willy and Ella enjoyed the good things more than the two tired travellers did.
Irene could scarcely touch the omelette, and Dorothy, in spite of Ingleby's entreaties, only nibbled a quantity of her own biscuits, which were, as Ingleby said, "not fit to make a meal of." They were those little pink and white fluffy light balls, flavoured with vanilla and rose, a large tin of which had been bought in Paris, and were Dorothy's favourite food just then.
They found favour with Willy, and he took a handful from the box several times. Dorothy did not approve of this, and said to Ingleby,—
"Put the lid on the box, Jingle; there won't be any biscuits left."
This was not very polite, and Willy shrugged his shoulders, and said to himself, "After all, I am glad she isnotmy cousin."
Irene was really thankful when Willy said it was time to go, for her head ached, and she was far more tired than Dorothy was.
And now poor Dorothy began to cry, and say she did not want Irene to go away—that she must stay with her, and not go and live with that big boy who was so greedy.
"Hush! hush! my dear," said Ingleby; "you must not forget yourself."
"I don't mind," said Willy, good-temperedly; "she is only a baby, and is tired."
"A baby!" sobbed Dorothy. "I amnota baby, and I love Irene, and she isnotto go away with you."
Ingleby was anxious to cut the parting short, and said to Irene, who was trying to comfort Dorothy,—
"Make haste and have it over. She will forget it, and——"
"I shan't forget Irene. You said I should forget Nino—dear, dear Nino. I don't forget him, and now—now I have lost him, I want Irene, I do!"
"I shall see you very often," Irene said, kissing her; "don't begin to cry again."
"Dear me!" Willy said, as they left the house; "she is worse than you, Ella. At first I thought her so pretty, and now I find she is only a little spoiled thing. However, we will soon teach her better, won't we, Ella?"
Ella, who had possessed herself of Irene's hand, said,—
"You must not be so rude to Dorothy as you are to me, Willy, or you will make her cry."
"No, I'll cure her of crying. But here we are. This is Villa Lucia."
Irene followed Willy into the house, and very soon Irene felt she was no longer lonely—a stranger in a strange land.
Irene had not seen her grannie for some years, and, with the instinct of childhood, she had discovered, without being told, that her father did not care much for her grannie. He rarely mentioned her, and, indeed, he always called her step-mother's mother "grannie" when he had occasion to write of her.
Till Irene had seen Lady Burnside she felt no difference between them. Mrs. Roscoe was a very grand, fashionable lady, who had called on her at Mrs. Baker's sometimes, and sent her large boxes of chocolate and French sweets.
Butthatdid not make Irene feel as if she belonged to her; and now, when the gentle lady by the fire rose to greet her and folded her in a warm embrace, Irene felt a strange choking sensation in her throat, and when she looked up at her grannie she saw tears were on her cheeks.
"I feel as if I had come home," she said, simply, "and itisso nice."
Happily for every one, a loud voice was heard at the door—"Let me in! let me in!" And when Ella ran to open it, there was Baby Bob, who came trotting across the room to Lady Burnside, and said,—
"I want the cousin; is that the cousin?"
"Yes. Go and give her a kiss, and say you are glad to see her."
But Baby Bob sidled back towards his grannie, and suddenly oppressed with the solemnity of the occasion, hid his round, rosy face in her gown, and beat a tattoo with his fat legs by way of expressing his welcome, in a manner, it must be said, peculiar to himself.
MOUNTAIN SCENE
Every child who reads my story must have felt how quickly strange things begin to grow familiar, and before we are reconciled to what is new it becomes almost old.
So it was with Dorothy, and in a less degree with Irene.
It was New Year's Day, and Dorothy was seated at the table in the schoolroom at Villa Lucia, writing to her uncle Cranstone.
She wrote a very nice round hand, between lines, thanks to the patient teaching which Irene bestowed on her. To be sure, the thin foreign paper was rather a trial, as the pen was so apt to stick when a thin up-stroke followed a firm down-stroke; but still the letter, when finished, was a very creditable performance to both mistress and pupil.
Lady Burnside had wisely decreed that Irene should have no lessons while she was at San Remo, for she was very forward for her age, having gone through the regular routine of school, and writing at ten years old almost a formed hand, while Dorothy had onlyprintedwords when Irene took her up as a pupil.
"It will be a nice occupation for Irene to help Dorothy with her lessons," Lady Burnside said; and Dorothy felt the importance of going to school when, every morning at ten o'clock, she was escorted by Ingleby to the Villa Lucia, and joined the party in the schoolroom.
Dorothy had a great deal to learn besides reading and writing and arithmetic, and as she had never had any one to give up to, she found that part of her daily lessons rather hard.
Baby Bob, in whom Irene delighted, tried Dorothy's patience sorely, and, indeed, he was a young person who required to be repressed.
Dorothy had just finished her letter to her uncle, and with aching fingers had written her name at the bottom of the second sheet, when Baby Bob appeared, followed by Ella.
"We are to have a holiday, because it is New Year's Day, and go on donkeys to La Colla."
"Yes," said Willy; "I have been to order Marietta's donkeys—the big brown one for me, the little white one for Dorothy, the little grey one for Ella, and the old spotted one for Irene. It's such fun going to La Colla, and we'll put Ingleby and Crawley on as we come down, and——"
But Willy was interrupted by a cry from Dorothy—
"He's got my letter! Oh, my letter!" and a smart slap was administered to Baby Bob, who, I am sorry to say, clenched his fat fist, and hit Dorothy in the mouth.
"Put the letter down at once, you naughty child!" Crawley said. "How dare you touch Miss Dorothy?"
The letter was with difficulty rescued from Baby Bob, in a sadly crumpled condition, and Irene smoothed the sheet with her hand and put it into a fresh envelope.
THE DONKEY EXPEDITIONTHE DONKEY EXPEDITION TO LA COLLA.Click toENLARGE
"I was only going to the post," Baby Bob said. "Grannie lets me drop her letters in the post, o' course."
"Well, wait till you are asked another time, Bob; then you won't get into trouble; but I don't think you deserved the hard slap," Ella said.
Dorothy, who was still crying and holding her apron up to her mouth, now drew herself up and said, "I shall go home to mother, I shall. I shan't stay here, to be ill-treated. Mother says Bob is the naughtiest spoiled boysheever knew."
"She has known a girl as much spoiled, anyhow," said Willy.
"Come, Dorothy, forget and forgive," said Irene; "and let us go and get ready for our donkey ride."
"I shan't go," persisted Dorothy; "I don't want to go; and just look!"
There was undoubtedly a tiny crimson spot on Dorothy's apron, and she began to sob again at the sight, and say she must go home that minute to Ingleby.
"Go along, then," said Willy, roughly; "we don't want a cry-baby with us. Look at Bob; he has quite forgotten the thump you gave him, and wants to kiss you."
I am sorry to say Dorothy turned a very unwilling cheek towards Baby Bob, who said—
"I'll never takeyourletter no more, Dolly."
Dorothy had, as we know, several nicknames from her uncle, but she had a particular aversion to that of "Dolly," and just touching Baby Bob with her lips, she said, "I hate to be called Dolly."
"Well," Willy said, "here come the donkeys, and Marietta and Francesco, and no one is ready. Come, make haste, girls."
"Come, Dorothy," Irene said, "let me put on your skirt." For the children had each a neat little blue serge skirt which they wore for their donkey expeditions. "Come, Dorothy," Irene pleaded. But Dorothy said she should stay with Lady Burnside till Ingleby came for her.
"You can't stay with grannie—she is verybusywithbusiness; and Constance has one of her headaches, and is in bed."
"Then I'll wait here till Jingle comes."
There was a wonderful amount of obstinacy expressed in that pretty, fair little face; and then Crawley came in to say the donkeys must not be kept waiting. Irene, finding it useless to say more, went to get ready, as Ella had already done, and left Dorothy in the sitting-room playing a tattoo on the window as she curled herself up in a circular straw chair.
Ella made one more attempt when she was dressed for the ride.
"Docome, Dorothy dear. We have got three baskets full of nice things to eat at La Colla, and the sun is so bright, and——"
"Go away," said Dorothy; adding, "Good-bye; I hope you'll enjoy jogging down over those hard rough stones on the donkeys."
A little girl, the daughter of a friend of Lady Burnside, came with her brother to join the party, and Dorothy watched them all setting off, Crawley holding Bob before her on the sturdy old brown donkey; Willy and Jack Meredith riding off with Francesco running at their heels, with his bare brown feet and bright scarlet cap; then Ella and Irene under Marietta's guidance; Ella looking back and kissing her hand to as much as she could see of Dorothy's hair, as she sat by the window under the verandah.
Then Dorothy was alone; it was no punishment to her, and she fell into one of her old meditations.
The chirp and twitter of swallows were heard, for, as we know, Dorothy had taken flight from England with them. And as one perched for a moment on the big aloe which grew just outside the verandah, Dorothy said, "I wonder if that's my old mother swallow; it looks just like her."
Presently another joined her, and the two twittered, and chirped, and wagged their restless forked tails, and turned their little heads from side to side, and then darted off in the warm sunshine. Glancing at the little timepiece which stood on the table, Dorothy saw it was not yet eleven, and Ingleby never came till twelve o'clock.
After all it was rather dull, and there was no need for her to wait for Ingleby, who often did not come till half-past twelve. A little more meditation, and then Dorothy uncurled herself and put down her legs slowly, first one, then the other, and then, with something very like a yawn, which ended in "Oh, dear!" her eyes fell on the letter which had been put into the envelope by Irene. It had a stamp on it, but was not addressed.
So Dorothy thought she would address it herself, and taking the pen, made a great blot to begin with, which was not ornamental; then she made a very wide C, which quite overshadowed the "anon" for "Canon." "Percival" would by no means allow itself to be put on the same line, and had to go beneath it. As to "Coldchester," it was so cramped up in the corner that it was hardly legible, but imitating a letter which she had seen Mr. Martyn address one day, she made up for it by a big "England" at the top. The envelope was not fastened down, and Dorothy remembered Irene said she had seen some dear little "Happy New Year" cards at a shop in the street, and that she would ask Ingleby to take her with Dorothy to buy one, and put it in the letter before it was posted.
"I'll go and get a card," Dorothy thought, "and post my own letter, and then come back, or go home to mother. I'll go and get ready directly."
As it happened, Dorothy's hat and pretty velvet jacket, trimmed with lovely soft fur, were kept in a little closet, with a window in it, behind the schoolroom. They were put there when she came to the Villa Lucia every morning by Ingleby, who never failed to send her in to see Lady Burnside, drawing secret comparisons between the appearance of her darling and that of Miss Packingham or little Miss Ella Montague.
Dorothy had some difficulty in getting herself into her jacket, and her hair notched into the elastic of her hat, which, springing back, caught her in the eyes, and made them water. Then, when she thought she was ready, she remembered she had not taken off the apron which was stained with the little crimson spot. A little rim of white showed under the jacket between the fur and the edge of her frock, but she pushed it up under the band, and then went softly down the hall to the glass door, and lifting theportière, or thick curtain, which hung over the outer door, she found herself in the road. For the Villa Lucia did not open into the garden which lay between the Villa and sloping ground and the blue sea, but from the back, into a road which led towards the old town of San Remo.
Dorothy held the letter firmly in her hand, and walked on with some dignity. It was rather nice to go to the post by herself, and she measured the distance in her own mind, as she had often been there with Ingleby and Crawley.
The shop where the New Year's cards were sold was near the post-office, and she had two shillings in her little leather purse at the bottom of her pocket.
Several Italian women, carrying heavy burdens on their heads, passed her and smiled, and said in a pleasant voice, "Buon gionno!" and one young woman, with a patient baby tightly swathed and fastened to her back, called out,—
"Ah, la piccola bella!"
Somehow Dorothy was so lost in meditation upon herself and her own cleverness in finding the way to the post, that she missed the first turning which would have led her down to the English part of the town. She took the next, but that brought her out beyond the shops and the post-office.
She did not at first notice this, and when she found she was much farther from home than she expected, she began to run, but still she did not get any nearer the shops and the post-office. Now the street of the English part of San Remo runs almost parallel with the sea, and there are several narrow lanes between the houses, which lead down to the quay, where all the boats sail from the pier, and where a great many women are mending the holes in the brown nets.
There are streets also leading up to the old town—that quaint old town, which was built on the steep sides of the hill, long, long before any English people thought of erecting their new houses and villas below it.
The streets of the old town are so steep that they are climbed by steps, or rather ridges, of pavement, which are set at rather long intervals. These streets are very narrow, and there are arches across them, like little bridges, from one house to another.
The houses in old Italian towns were built with these arches or little bridges because they formed a support to the tall houses, which were sometimes shaken by earthquakes.
Now it happened that as Dorothy was wondering how it could be that she had missed the post-office, she caught sight of a little white fluffy dog, with brown ears, running up towards the opening of one of these narrow streets.
"My Nino! my Nino!" she exclaimed. "It must be Nino." She did not stop to consider that Nino would have answered her call, if, indeed, it had been he. She did not stop to consider that he was old, and could never have run so fast uphill as this little dog could run. She turned out of the broad street into one of the narrow ones, and chased the little white dog till she was out of breath.
There were not many people about, and no one took much notice of her; and she never stopped till she found herself in the market square of the old town, where, out of breath and exhausted, she sat down on a flight of steps, hopeless of catching the dog, who had now quite disappeared.
An old and dirty-looking church was before her, and several peasant women, with their baskets on their heads, were passing in and out. Red and yellow handkerchiefs were bound round their dark hair, and some of them wore pretty beads round their necks. One or two stopped to look at Dorothy, and talked and made signs to her; but she could not understand what they said, and they smiled at her and passed on. The streets leading up from the market square looked very dim and very steep, and Dorothy began to feel lonely and frightened, especially when an old woman, who might have been a hundred years old, so wrinkled was her face and so bowed her back, stopped before her as she sat on the steps, and began to mumble, and make grimaces, and open her mouth, where no teeth were to be seen, and point at Dorothy with her lean, bony, brown fingers.
Dorothy got up and began to run down towards the town again as quickly as she had come up, when, alas! her foot caught against the corner of a rough stone step before one of the tall houses, and she fell with some violence on the uneven, rugged pavement, hitting her head a sharp blow.
Poor little Dorothy! Getting her own way, and doing exactly as she wished, had brought her now a heavy punishment. While Ella and Willy and Baby Bob, with their two little friends, were enjoying the contents of the luncheon basket at La Colla, Dorothy was lying all alone amongst strangers in the old town of San Remo!