SWALLOW AND BUTTERFLY
Ingleby arrived at the Villa Lucia at the usual time, and went, as was her custom, to the schoolroom door, and knocked.
She was generally answered by a rush to the door by Ella and Dorothy, and a cry of—
"Grannie says she is to stay to luncheon to-day," or, "Don't take her away yet."
But to-day silence reigned, and when Ingleby looked in, the schoolroom was empty.
She turned away, and met the maid who waited on Constance with a tray in her hand and a cup of cocoa, which she was taking upstairs.
"Where is Miss Dorothy, and where are the children?"
"All gone out on donkeys to Colla," was the answer. "Her ladyship was glad to get the house quiet, for Miss Constance has had a very bad night."
"Talk of bad nights!" exclaimed Ingleby; "my mistress has done nothing but cough since four o'clock this morning. Well, I hope Miss Dorothy was well wrapped up, for the wind is cold enough out of the sun, though Stefano is angry if I say so. I wish we were back in England. I know, what with the nasty wood fires, and the 'squitoes, and the draughts, and——"
Ingleby was interrupted here by Lady Burnside, who came out of the drawing-room.
"Good-morning, Ingleby; how is Mrs. Acheson?"
"But very poorly, my lady; she has had a bad night."
"Ah! that is why you have not gone to Colla with the party. But I am sure Crawley will take care of Miss Dorothy, and Miss Irene is quite to be trusted."
"I knew nothing of the party going to Colla, my lady. I hope it is not one of those break-neck roads, like going up the side of a house."
"It is very steep in some parts, but the donkeys are well used to climbing. Give my love to Mrs. Acheson, and say I will come and see her to-morrow."
Ingleby walked back rather sadly. She wished she had known of the expedition, for there was safety for her darling when she could walk behind the donkey going uphill, and by its head coming down again. What did it matter that the fatigue was great, and that she panted for breath as she tried to keep up? She held Dorothy's safety before her own, and all personal fatigue was as nothing to secure that.
If any little girls who read this story have kind, faithful nurses like Ingleby, I hope they will never forget to be grateful to them for their patience and kindness in their childish days when childhood has passed away, and they no longer need their watchful care. Ingleby's love was not, perhaps, wise love, but it was very true and real, and had very deep roots in the attachment she felt for her mistress, whom she had served so faithfully for many years.
Between Stefano and Ingleby no great friendship subsisted, and when she returned alone from the Villa Lucia, he said,—
"Where's the little signora, then?"
"Where? you may well ask! gone up one of those steep mountains to Colla on a donkey."
"Si!well, and why not?"
"Why not? Because it is very dangerous, and I think fellows who take other people's children from them ought at least to give notice of it."
"Si!well," was Stefano's rejoinder, "that's a fine ride up to Colla, and there are more books there than there are days in the year, and pictures, and——"
"Come now, Stefano," his wife called, "it is time to stop thy talking, and to get the luncheon ready. Gone to Colla, do you say, Mrs. Ingleby?—a very pretty excursion; and there, high up in the heart of the hills, is a wonderful library of books, and many fine pictures, collected by a good priest, who starved himself to buy them and store them there."
But Ingleby was not to be interested in any details of the library at Colla, which is visited with so much delight by many who spend a winter at San Remo. She was anxious about Dorothy, and Stefano said,—
"It will be wonderful if they are home before sunset."
"Home before sunset!" exclaimed poor Ingleby; "well, I should think Mrs. Crawley will have sense enough forthat, though I don't think much of her wisdom, spoiling that baby of three years old as she does."
Stefano chuckled.
"Ah,si!but others are spoiled, as well asBambino Bobbo."
Ingleby had now to go to Mrs. Acheson, and tell her that Dorothy was not coming home to luncheon.
As this often happened when she stayed at Lady Burnside's, Mrs. Acheson was not anxious. Ingleby kept back the expedition to Colla, and Mrs. Acheson asked no questions then.
But as the afternoon wore on, and Dorothy did not return, escorted as usual by Willy and Irene Packingham, Mrs. Acheson told Ingleby she had better go to Lady Burnside and bring Dorothy home with her.
"I have not seen the child to-day," she said, "except when I was half asleep, when she came to wish me a 'Happy New Year!' And this present has arrived for her from her uncle at Coldchester. Look, Ingleby; is it not sweet? I could not resist peeping into the box. Won't she be delighted!"
The box contained two little figures like dormice, with long tails and bright eyes, in a cosy nest. The head of each little mouse opened, and then inside one was the prettiest little scent-bottle you can imagine, and inside the other a pair of scissors, with silver handles, and a tiny thimble on a little crimson velvet cushion.
How Ingleby wished Dorothy Dormouse, whose name was written on the card tied to the box, was there, I cannot tell you; but how little did Ingleby or any one else guesswhereshe was at that moment!
Ingleby put off going to the Villa Lucia till the last moment, and arrived at the gate just as the donkeys came merrily along the road.
Francesco could not resist the delight of sending them all at full trot for the last quarter of a mile, and Crawley, grasping Baby Bob tightly with one arm, and with her other hand holding the pommel of the saddle, jogged up and down like any heavy dragoon soldier; while Irene, and Willy, and Ella, and the Merediths came on urging their tired steeds, and asking Crawley if it was not "jolly to canter," while poor Crawley, breathless and angry gasped out that she had a dreadful stitch in her side, and that she would never mount a donkey again.
Marietta came on behind, with the ends of her scarlet handkerchief on her head flapping in the wind, and though apparently not hurrying herself, she took such strides with her large, heavily-shod feet, that she was soon at the gate.
There was the usual bustle of dismounting, and some scolding from Crawley, and a few sharp raps administered by Marietta to Francesco for making the donkeys canter; while poor Ingleby's excited questions were not even noticed.
"Miss Dorothy—where is Miss Dorothy?—do you hear me, Miss Packingham?—do you hear me, Master Willy?—speak, won't you?—has she fallen off one of these brutes?—is she—is she—Master Willy—Miss Ella—Miss Irene!"
Then Ella turned from giving a parting pat to her donkey, and seeing Ingleby's distressed face, said,—
"Dorothy did not come with us; she is not hurt?"
"Oh, Miss Ella, Miss Ella!" exclaimed poor Ingleby, holding up her hands and sinking back against the wall. "Oh, Miss Ella, Miss Ella! oh, Miss Irene!"
"Why, what is the matter, Mrs. Ingleby?" said Crawley, who had set down Baby Bob to toddle into the house, and was settling the payment for the donkeys with Marietta. "Why, you look like a ghost."
"Miss Dorothy! Miss Dorothy! Where can she be?"
"Well, she is safe enough, isn't she?"
"No," said Ingleby; "she is gone! she is lost! she is lost!—and oh, what will become of me?"
"Lost!" the children all repeated; "she can't be lost."
And then they all ran into the house, and Lady Burnside, who was sitting with Constance in the room upstairs came hurriedly down.
"What do you say?—little Dorothy has not been with you to Colla? She must have gone home, then."
"No, no, my lady," Ingleby said. "No, no; I have been waiting for her there till ten minutes ago. She is lost—lost—and oh! I wish we had never, never come to these foreign places; and the mistress so ill!"
Lady Burnside was indeed greatly distressed, but she took immediate action. She sent Willy to fetch Stefano, anxious that Mrs. Acheson should not be alarmed and she despatched him at once to the Bureau of Police, and told him to describe Dorothy, and to tell every one that she was missing.
Ingleby tried to follow them, but her legs trembled, and she sat down on a bench in the hall and burst into tears.
And this was the trouble which little Dorothy's self-will had brought upon every one; this was the end of her determination to do assheliked best, without thinking what it was right and best to do, and what other people liked best—a sad end to a day that might have been so happy; a hard lesson for her to learn!
SWALLOWS
At first Dorothy was scarcely conscious of what had happened to her, and when she really recovered herself she found she was in a dark, low room, where she could hardly see.
There was a great chatter going on around her, of which she could not make out a word. As her eyes got accustomed to the dim light, she saw the figures of two women, a boy, and an old crone sitting by a wood fire. The room seemed very full, and was very hot; a smell of smoke, and dried fish, and of tar, made Dorothy gasp for breath. She was lying on what seemed to her a wooden shelf, but was in reality a bed, and she felt something cold on her head. She put up her hand, and found her forehead was bandaged with a wet cloth.
"I want to go home," she said, struggling to get down from the bed; but she was seized by a pair of strong arms, and a great many words were addressed to her as she was almost forced again to lie down.
But Dorothy now began to cry and scream, and presently the narrow doorway was filled with inquiring faces, and the strife of tongues became more and more loud and noisy.
Not one word could Dorothy understand, except, perhaps, "signorina," with which she had become familiar, and a few words which she had caught up from Stefano.
The brown hands which held her down were firm, if gentle, and, though she fought and struggled, she could not regain her feet. Presently she felt something warm trickling down her cheek, and then there were fresh exclamations, and Dorothy, putting up her finger, saw it was stained with crimson blood.
She gave herself up for lost, poor little girl, and began to sob and cry most bitterly; then, to her surprise, the pair of strong arms lifted her gently from the bed, and carried her to the smoking embers on the hearth; and, looking up, she saw a kindly face bending over her, and she was rocked gently to and fro, just as Ingleby had often rocked her by the nursery fire at Coldchester. More wet bandages were put to her forehead, and the boy, drawing near, touched the long, silky hair, and said,—
"Bella, è bella."
"Oh! do let me go home—take me home—please—please——"
But no one knew what she said, and the woman only began to sing as she rocked, in the soft Italian language, while the rest talked and chattered, and raised their hands in wonder, and gazed down at the child with their large dark eyes; and if Dorothy could have understood them, she would have known they only intended to be kind.
To be sure, they told Giulia that the little signorina must belong to rich English, and she would get a reward; and that she ought to go down to the town and inquire at the hotels and the villas.
A good deal passed through Dorothy's mind as she lay in the arms of the rough though kindly Italian woman. How long ago it seemed since the morning, since she had been angry with Baby Bob, and had refused to go to Colla. Oh, how she wished she had gone now. How she longed to say she was sorry, to kiss Baby Bob, to throw her arms round Irene, and to tell mother she would never, never be naughty again! Convulsive sobs shook her, and she clung to the kind woman's neck, praying and entreating to be taken home.
But wherewashome? No one knew, and no one could understand her; and at last, worn out with crying, Dorothy fell fast asleep.
Neighbours came in and out, and looked curiously at the little golden-haired signorina, whose head seemed to make a spot of light in the dark dwelling.
"They will miss her, and search for her," the neighbours said, "and then you will get a reward, Giulia. She is like an angel with the light round her head in the window in the church."
"She is like a sorrowful little lost kid bleating for its mother," said Giulia.
So the hours went on, and the sunset gleamed from behind the old church, and brightened the grey walls of the houses in the square, and made the windows glitter and shine like stars.
DOROTHY FELL FAST ASLEEP."DOROTHY FELL FAST ASLEEP."Click toENLARGE
But Dorothy did not wake, and still Giulia sat patiently with her in her strong brown arms, and crooned over her the words of a hush-a-bye with which the dark-eyed boy, who stood notching a stick by the open fireplace, had been lulled to sleep in his turn—
"Ninni, ninni, nanna,Allegrezza di la mamma!Addormentati, addormentati,Oh, mia bella!"
This answered to the "Hush-a-bye, baby," which we all know, and really meant—
"Joy of thy mother, sleep, sleep!My pretty one, sleep."
The sunset faded from the sky, and the smouldering wood ashes and embers on the hearth now shone with only a dim red eye in the middle; and still Dorothy slept, and still Giulia swayed her body to and fro, and sang on in a low, soft voice.
It was really very kind of Giulia, for a heap of brown net and a ball of stout twine, into which a huge bone netting-needle was thrust, lay by the rough wooden bench near the small window. And Giulia did very much want to finish that net, and send her boy down to the quay with it to the master fisherman who had given her the order to make it.
But Giulia could not find it in her kind, motherly heart to risk waking the child by laying her down on the bed again, and she dreaded to hear the cries in the English tongue, which she could not understand, and so could not heed.
It was nearly dark when at last Dorothy opened her eyes and sat up, with a prolonged yawn. The sleep had refreshed her, and she had been so quieted by it, that she did not resist or cry when Giulia put her down on a low wooden stool; and throwing another bit of wood on the fire, a flame leaped up, which was pleasant and cheerful, and made the red petticoat which the old crone by the fire wore look bright and warm.
Then Giulia lighted a small lamp, which was hung to a hook on the ceiling, and putting a big iron pipkin on the fire, began to prepare some broth for the little signorina.
Dorothy watched her as if she were still dreaming, and saw how the big gold earrings bobbed up and down, and wondered why Giulia had such a very wide waist, and why any one who had such a shabby petticoat should wear earrings, and have shining gold pins in the handkerchief which was bound round her head.
Dorothy did not like the smell of the soup at all, and when Giulia crumbled into it some dark bread, and finally offered it to her, with a large wooden spoon, she turned away in disgust.
But Giulia persisted, and Dorothy, having tasted nothing since breakfast, was really hungry, and swallowed a few spoonfuls.
An orange which a neighbour brought in hanging on the bough, with its dark green leaves, was much more tempting, and when she took it from the woman who offered it to her, she said, "Grazia"—she knew that meant "Thank you"—for Francesco always said "Grazia" when he took the little copper pieces of money, which seemed so many, and were worth so little, from her hand or Irene's when they had dismounted from the donkeys.
Presently a familiar voice at the door made Dorothy stop eating the orange, and she turned her eye anxiously towards the new-comer.
It was Francesco himself, who began to tell what grief there was in Villa Firenze, and how a little signorina was lost, and he held up a crumpled wisp of paper, and said he had picked it up in the market square.
"Oh! it is mine, it is mine, Francesco. Don't you know me, Francesco? It is my letter to Uncle Crannie. Francesco! Francesco!"
The boy began a series of jumps of joy and springs of delight, and clapped his hands.
"Trovata! trovata!—è la piccola signorina" ("Found! found! the little lady is found"), he said.
"Let me go with him! he knows where I live. Oh, tell them—tell them to let me go with you!"
A voluble stream of Italian was poured forth by every one, which Dorothy could not understand; but Giulia got Dorothy's hat, and the white scarf, and the pretty velvet jacket, and then she was dressed—not without many expressions of profound admiration for the soft white feather and the velvet—and made ready to start with Francesco. Not alone. No; Giulia was not going to trust her to the donkey-boy without her, and Francesco made a funny face and showed his white teeth between his bright red lips, and whispered in Dorothy's ear the one English word he perfectly understood—
"Money! money! she get money for the signorina—ah! ah! ah!"
I will not say that there was no thought in Giulia's mind that the mother whom Francesco had described as crying bitterly for her lost treasure might not add some silver coins to her stock kept in the old stone pipkin in the cupboard—a store which Giulia liked to see grow, because, when her Anton was big and strong, she would pay it to the good master fisherman who employed her to make and mend his nets, and had often said her dark-eyed Anton was born to be a sailor.
Dorothy felt strangely dizzy and bewildered when she began to walk, and though she held fast to Giulia's strong hand on one side, and to Francesco's on the other, she tottered and tumbled about from side to side, and was not sorry when Giulia took her up in her arms and carried her with swift, firm steps down into the wide street of San Remo.
It would have been quite dark now if it had not been for the light of a crescent moon, which hung like a silver bow over the sea. Just as they reached the upper road the doctor who attended Mrs. Acheson passed them quickly. He turned as he passed the group, and recognised Francesco, who was a little in advance of Giulia and her burden.
"Hi! Francesco," he said; "has anything been heard of the little lady?"
"Oh, Dr. Forman! Oh, Dr. Forman!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"Why, here is the lost lamb," said the doctor. He had a little girl of his own, and he was as delighted as possible that Dorothy was safe. "Why, Dorothy," he said, "your poor mamma has been made quite ill with fright; and your nurse, and Willy Montague, and that nice little friend of yours, have been hunting for you high and low. Where have you been?"
But Dorothy was sobbing too much to speak, and Giulia told Dr. Forman, who understood Italian as well as his own language, the story of Dorothy's fall, the cut on her forehead, and how she had taken her into her house and done all she could for her.
"Well, bring her home," the doctor said; "and, Francesco, run off and try to find the searching party; they must be worn out."
"Please, Dr. Forman," Dorothy gasped, "this woman has been very, very kind to me." Then she lifted her little hand, and stroking Giulia's face, said,—
"Grazia, grazia."
"The little angel!" Giulia said. "She is just an angel, and I am glad I found her; that I am."
In another five minutes the doctor and Giulia, carrying her burden, arrived at the gate of the Villa Firenze. A group was collected there, for, as we all know, when we are waiting for anyone about whose coming we are anxious, we always go out to watch, and hope that every minute they will arrive. They don't come any the quicker for this, but it is a comfort in some unexplained way.
"Let me take her to her mother," Giulia said to Dr. Forman; and he could not refuse. So he led the way to the drawing-room, opening the door gently, and standing for a moment behind the screen which protected the room from the draught of the door.
Lady Burnside, who had been with Mrs. Acheson all the afternoon, rose to see who was coming.
Oh! what a relief it was to hear Dr. Forman saying,—
"The child is safe; here she is;" and then Giulia strode in, and kneeling down by the sofa where poor Mrs. Acheson lay, she put Dorothy into her arms.
You may be very sure that Giulia's store of coins in the pipkin was increased, and that the delicate English lady put her arm round the Italian one's neck and kissed her, saying the pretty word by which Dorothy had won her heart—
"Grazia, grazia."
The consequences of self-will do not always pass away as quickly as we hope and expect. Sometimes we have to suffer by seeing the suffering of others, and feel bitterly that we have caused it. I do not think any pain is more keen than that sorrow which is caused by seeing the pain we have given those we love.
Lady Burnside had been afraid on the first evening of Dorothy's return that, in the rapturous joy of poor Ingleby and the general delight of every one, Dorothy might be brought to think lightly of the fault which had caused so much trouble.
Seated in a low chair, her hand in her mother's, and the other children gathered round her, while Ingleby stood feasting her eyes upon her darling, Dorothy became something of a heroine; and no one, in the first joy of receiving her safe and sound, could find it in their hearts to reprove her for what had passed.
Lady Burnside felt that it was not for her to speak seriously to Dorothy; and yet, when she saw her carried away to bed by Ingleby, with her uncle's present clasped in her arms, and heard her say, "I feelquitelike Dorothy Dormouse now," she did long to say more than Mrs. Acheson did—"Dorothy will never run away by herself again and frighten poor mother."
As it proved, the fright and long watching had a very serious effect on Mrs. Acheson. The next day Dr. Forman ordered her to keep in bed; and her cough increased so much that for some days there was great anxiety about her. Dorothy was so accustomed to see her mother ill that it did not strike her as anything unusual; but one morning, when she was starting gaily for the Villa Lucia, Ingleby called to Stefano from the top of the stairs that he must take Miss Dorothy, for she could not leave her mistress.
"I can go alone," Dorothy said; for neither Stefano nor his wife were very great favourites of hers.
"No, no," Stefano said; "the little signorina is not to be trusted;" and taking her hand in his, he prepared to lead her along the sunny road to the Villa Lucia.
But Dorothy snatched away her hand, and said, "You should not speak likethatto me."
"Ah," Stefano said, "someone must speak, someone must speak at times to little signorinas who give pain and trouble."
Dorothy felt her dignity much injured, and repeated, with emphasis,—
"You should not speak like that tome."
Stefano only shrugged his shoulders; and as they had reached the door of the Villa Lucia, he left her, saying,—
"The little signorina will have to hear hard things, like the rest of us, one day."
Irene met Dorothy with the question—"How is your mother? Grannie is so anxious to know."
"Mother is not up yet," Dorothy replied. "Jingle is sitting with her."
The other children now came clustering round Dorothy with the same question; and Irene, after helping Dorothy to take off her jacket and hat, said,—
"Come and see grannie."
"Before my lesson?"
"Yes; she wants to speak to you."
Dorothy felt a strange misgiving at her heart, and said, sharply,—
"What for? What is she going to say?"
"I think," said Irene, gently, "she wishes to comfort you; your mamma is very, very ill."
"No, she isn't!" said Dorothy, desperately. "No, she isn't; not a bit more ill than she often is. I saw her last night, and she lookedquitebetter—her cheeks pink, and her eyes bright."
"Well," Irene said, "I know Dr. Forman thinks her very ill, and he has sent for Canon Percival."
"For Uncle Crannie? for Uncle Crannie?"
"Yes," Irene said, "two days ago."
Dorothy stood irresolute for a moment, and then, with a great effort to control herself, said,—
"Let me go to your grandmamma; let me go."
But Irene put her arms round Dorothy, and whispered,—
"I have been asking God to make your mamma better, and I think He will. Haveyouasked Him and told Him all about it?"
"About what?" Dorothy said.
"Everything—how sorry you are that you gave your mamma such anxiety; and haveyouasked to be forgiven?"
But Dorothy said,—
"I nevertellGod anything. I say my prayers, but I did not, could not, tell Him about such things as my slapping Baby Bob, and getting angry, and staying at home while you went to Colla. He is so far off, and besides——"
"Oh, Dorothy!" said Irene, seriously, "God is very near, Jesus is very near, and He cares about every little thing."
"Are yousure?" said poor little Dorothy. "Then He knows and cares about mother—mother——"
A sob choked her, and yet she tried not to give way; to cry very much would show that she believed her mother was very,veryill, and she could not,darenot believe it! But she said simply—
"IknowI am not good; but I love—oh! how Idolove mother!"
Lady Burnside received Dorothy with her calm, sweet smile, and Constance, lying on her couch, put out her hand, and said, "Come and kiss me, Dorothy."
Constance had not generally taken much notice of Dorothy. She had looked upon her as a spoiled little thing, and had felt, like many invalids who have been accustomed to be the centre of attraction and attention, a little vexed that every one admired the child, and were, as she thought, blind to her faults. Even Willy, though he was blunt and rough to Dorothy sometimes, was really devoted to her. So was Jack Meredith, and as to Irene and her own little sister Ella, they were ridiculously fond of her. Irene particularly would always give up to Dorothy, though she was so much younger than herself. Baby Bob had, in his own way, the same feeling about Dorothy that Constance had. He strongly objected to anyone who could possibly dethrone him from the position of "King of the Nursery," which was Crawley's favourite title for her youngest child. Baby Bob had ruled with despotic power, and was naturally unwilling to see a rival near the throne. But Constance was now touched by the sight of the little figure in the blue dress, over which the cloud of light silky hair hung, when she saw the wistful questioning glance in those blue eyes, which were turned entreatingly to Lady Burnside, as she said,—
"Tell mereallyabout—about mother."
Then Lady Burnside drew Dorothy close to her, and said,—
"Your dear mother is very ill, Dorothy, but we must pray to God to make her better."
Dorothy stood with Lady Burnside's arm round her, still gazing up at the dear, kind face bending over her; and then, after a pause, she said, in a low tone,—
"Is itmyfault? Is it all my fault?"
Lady Burnside made Dorothy sit down on a low chair by her side, and talked so kindly and wisely to her. She told her that her mother had passed a very bad night of coughing the night before New Year's Day; that when the news came of her loss, which Stefano had abruptly told her, Mrs. Acheson had, forgetting how easily she was chilled, run out into the garden with only a shawl thrown over her; that it was with great difficulty she had been persuaded not to go herself to look for Dorothy; that she had paced up and down the room in her distress; and that that night, after the excitement and joy of her return were over, she had been very faint and ill, and now she had inflammation of her lungs, which she was very weak to bear up against.
Lady Burnside had gone through many troubles herself, and she had the sympathetic spirit which children, as well as grown-up people, feel to be so sweet in sorrow. There were no reproaches, and no hard words, but I think little Dorothy never forgot the lesson which she learned from Lady Burnside that morning, and often when she was beginning to be self-willed and irritable, if that self-will was crossed, she would think of Lady Burnside's words,—
"Take care when the first temptation comes to pray to resist it."
She did not return to the Villa Firenze that night, nor did Irene take her into the schoolroom that day. She read to her, and amused her by dressing a doll and teaching her how to crochet a little frock for it.
Early the next morning Canon Percival arrived, and Dorothy was taken by him to see her mother.
As they were walking up the road together, Dorothy said,—
"Uncle Crannie, do you knowall, all that happened on New Year's Day?"
"Yes, Dorothy; I have heard all."
"Oh, Uncle Crannie, to think of Baby Bob's taking my letter to you beginning all the trouble!"
"Nay, my little Dorothy, it was not Baby Bob who began the trouble; it wasyou. We must never shift the blame from our own shoulders, and say, ifhehad not said that, or she had not provoked me,Ishould not have done what I did."
"But itwastiresome to squeeze up your letter, which I had taken such pains to write."
"Yes, very tiresome; butthatdoes not alter your fault."
"Oh, Uncle Crannie, Uncle Crannie! IwishI had not run off; but then I thought I saw Nino."
"Poor Nino!" exclaimed Canon Percival; "in all the trouble and sorrow I have found here I forgot about Nino. I have something to tell you about him, but——"
Canon Percival was interrupted by meeting Dr. Forman.
A few words were exchanged between them, and then little Dorothy, with a sad, serious face, was taken by her uncle into her mother's room.
LAKE SCENE
Many days of deep anxiety followed, and poor little Dorothy's heart was sad and troubled. Irene proved a true and loving friend, and, with wisdom far beyond her years, encouraged Dorothy to go on with her little lessons, and learn to knit and crochet. "To make a shawl for mother by the time she gets well" became an object of ambition; and Irene helped her out of difficulties, and turned the troublesome corners at the four parts of the square, and would read to her and Ella while she pulled the soft Pyrenean wool in and out the long treble stitches.
They were very busy one morning a week after Canon Percival's arrival, when they saw his tall figure coming up the garden. He looked happier than he had done for some time, and when Dorothy ran to meet him, he said,—
"Good news to-day; mother is really better; and Dr. Forman thinks she may soon be as well as she was before this last attack of illness."
Good news indeed! If any little girl who reads Dorothy's story has ever had to feel the weight upon her heart which a dear father's or mother's illness has caused, she will know how, when the burden is lifted, and the welcome words are spoken, like Canon Percival's, all the world seems bright and joyful, and hope springs up like a fountain within.
"Yes," Canon Percival said, as Dorothy threw her arms round his neck, "we may be very thankful and glad; and now, while I go and see Lady Burnside, will you get ready to take me to visit the old town, and——"
"Giulia, and the old woman, and Anton!" exclaimed Dorothy.
Oh yes! the children were soon ready, and they all set off towards the old town, all except Willy, who had to wait for Mr. Martyn, and who looked with longing eyes at the party as they walked away.
"Botherthis horrid sum!" he said; "itwon'tcome right. What's the use of asking such ridiculous questions? Who cares about the answer?"
But Willy got the answer right in spite of his grumbling, and had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Martyn tell his grandmother that he had improved very much of late, and that he would take a good place at a school when he was sent to one.
It was a lovely spring morning, that beautiful spring of the sunny South, which comes early in the year with a sudden burst of flowers of all colours. All the acacias and mimosas in the gardens before the villas were waving their golden tassels in the breeze, and the scarlet anemones and the yellow narcissi were making a carpet under foot.
Dorothy danced along in the gladness of her heart, and Canon Percival, when he thought of whatmighthave been, felt thankful and glad also. As they climbed the steep street leading to the square before the big church, a little white dog with brown ears toddled out.
"Oh, that is the dog I thought was Nino! How could I think so?" Dorothy exclaimed; "his legs are so ugly, and he has such a mean little tail. Ah! my poor Nino was beautiful when compared withyou," she said, stooping down to pat the little dog. "And, Uncle Crannie," she said, "do you remember that sad, dreadful day, when you took me to see mother, you said you had something to tell me about Nino, and then you left off."
"Ah!" Canon Percival said, "I believe I did say so, but, Dorothy, can you wait to hear what it is?"
"I don't know," Dorothy said, doubtfully, "I don't know; it can't be anything very happy."
"Well, I advise you to wait," Canon Percival said.
Dorothy looked up at her uncle, and said,—
"Is it that his dear dead little body has been found?"
But Canon Percival only repeated, "I advise you towait."
"How long?"
"Till we all go back to England."
They were at Giulia's house now. She was sitting on the doorstep, netting so fast, and such a big brown net lay in a heap behind her. Anton was the first to see the visitors, and exclaimed,—
"Madre! madre mia! la signorina!"
Giulia flung down her netting, and starting up, to Dorothy's surprise, caught her in her strong arms once more, and kissed her.
And now, what seemed to the children very wonderful, Canon Percival began to talk to Giulia as fast in Italian as he did in English. And such a history was poured forth by Giulia, and then followed such gestures, and such exclamations! and Anton was caught by the arm, and shaken by his mother, and then she pointed to Canon Percival, and when Dorothy caught the word "Grazia," she knew that her uncle was promising to do some kind thing. Ella, who from long habit could understand a great deal of what passed, told Irene and Dorothy that Canon Percival was promising to pay the money for Anton's apprenticeship to the master boatman, and that he was writing the name in his pocket-book, and that he said he would go down to the quay and harbour to find him, and if he gave a good character of mother and son, he would have an agreement made, and the boy should be made an apprentice, without touching that store of silver pieces in the old pipkin in the cupboard.
Then they all went into the house, and Dorothy showed the bed where she had been placed, and Ella and Irene quite agreed with her that it was very stuffy in the little low room, and the smell of tar and smoke anything but nice.
Then there was the old crone by the chimney-corner, who muttered and murmured, and beckoned Dorothy to her side.
Poor little Dorothy bore the kiss which was given her with great composure, but she could not help giving a little shudder, and told Ella afterwards the smell of garlic and tobacco was "dreadful."
Canon Percival said a few words which were not intelligible to Dorothy, but Irene whispered to her—
"He is speaking to them all about the Lord Jesus; that's why Giulia is crossing herself. That is her way of showing reverence."
Poor Giulia's eyes were full of tears as Canon Percival went on. He was telling the story of the Cross, simply and earnestly, to these poor people, as they seldom, if ever, heard it, in their own tongue, the soft Italian tongue, which is so musical.
When they left the house they were all very quiet, and could Dorothy have understood what Giulia was saying as she stood on the large stone step, watching them down the narrow street, she would have known she was praying in her own fashion that blessings might follow them.
Canon Percival next went down to the harbour, and there, from the pier, is a most beautiful view of the old town, rising up, higher and higher, to the crest of the hill till it reaches the large church which belongs to the lepers' hospital. Canon Percival inquired for Angelo Battista, the master fisherman; and a fine sailor, with a face as brown as a chestnut, and big dark eyes, smiled when Canon Percival disclosed his errand.
"Yes, Anton was a good boy; his mother had a long tongue, but she was very industrious—industrious with tongue and fingers alike," he said, and then he laughed heartily, and two or three men standing near joined in.
At last all was settled, and Angelo Battista was to bring up a written document that evening to the Villa Firenze, and bring little Anton with him, to make the needful declaration required in such cases by the notary, that he agreed to the terms proposed.
Canon Percival left San Remo the next day, saying that Coldchester Cathedral could not get on without him. He was so cheery and so kind, the children all lamented his loss.
But now golden days came for them all, as Mrs. Acheson got, as Ingleby expressed it, "nearer well" than she had been for years. She took long drives in the neighbourhood, and they visited several old Italian towns, such as Taggia and Poggio.
The road to them led along the busy shore of the blue Mediterranean, and then through silvery olive groves, where flowers of every brilliant colour were springing.
And when May came, and the swallows twittered on the roofs of the villas, and were seen consulting for their flight northward, the whole party set off with them,homewards.
Canon Percival met them at Paris, and they stayed there a week, and saw many of its wonders—the beautiful pictures in the Louvre, and the noble galleries at Versailles, where the fountains play, and the long, smooth avenues which lead to La Petite Trianon, which are full of memories of poor Marie Antoinette.
Nothing made more impression on the children than the sight of her boudoir in the palace at Versailles, where whoever looks up at the glass panels sees, by their peculiar arrangement in one corner, the whole figure without the head. It is said the young girl Dauphiness glanced up at this, and starting back with horror, said—"Ah! J'ai perdu ma tête!" A strange coincidence, certainly, when one remembers how her head was taken off by the cruel guillotine in later years—the bright hair grey, the head bowed with sorrow, and the heart torn with grief for her husband, who had preceded her, and still more for the children she left behind.
At last the time came to cross the Channel once more, and the passage was calm, and the children enjoyed the short voyage.
At Folkestone a very great surprise awaited Dorothy. She hardly knew whether she was dreaming or awake when in the waiting-room at the station she saw a man in a fisherman's blouse with a white dog in his arms.
"Nino! Nino! Oh, it must be my Nino!"
There could be no doubt of it this time, for the little dog grew frantic and excited, and leaped whining out of the fisherman's arms, and was in ecstasies at again meeting his mistress.
This, then, was Canon Percival's secret. And he told the story of Nino's discovery in a few words.
The day when he was at Folkestone, on his way to San Remo—summoned there by Mrs. Acheson's illness—he saw a fisherman on the pier with a little white dog by his side. It seemed hardly possible, but the fisherman explained that, near one of the Channel steamers, in his smack, he had seen a little white dog fall over the side, that he had looked out for him as they crossed the precise place, and found his little black nose just above the water, making a gallant fight for life. They lowered a little boat and picked him up, and read the name on his collar, "Nino."
That collar he still wore, and it was evident that the sovereign Canon Percival gave him did not quite reconcile the man to the parting. "His children had grown so fond of the little beast," he said.
But Nino, though he gave the fisherman a parting lick of gratitude, showed hisoldlove was the stronger; and I do think it would be hard to say which was the happier at the renewal of affection—Dorothy or her dog Nino.
Certain it is, we always value anything more highly when werecoverpossession of it, and Nino went back to Coldchester full of honours; and the story of his adventures made a hero of him in the eyes of the vergers of the Cathedral, who in past times had been wont to declare this little white dog was a deal of trouble, rushing about on the flower-beds of the Cathedral gardens.
With the homeward flight of the swallows we must say good-bye to Dorothy. A very happy summer was passed in the Canon's house, brightened by the companionship of Irene, and sometimes of Ella and Willy and Baby Bob. For Lady Burnside took a house for a few months in the neighbourhood of Coldchester, and the children continually met. But it was by Mrs. Acheson's express desire that Irene did not return to Mrs. Baker's school. She pleaded with Colonel Packingham that she might have her as a companion for her only child; and they shared a governess and lessons together.
Irene had the influence over Dorothy which could not fail to be noticed in its effects—the influence which a child who has a simple desire to follow in the right waymusthave over those with whom she is associated.
Dorothy's flight with the swallows had taught her many things, and with Irene for a friend, she had long ceased to say she did not care for playmates. She was even known to devote herself for an hour at a time to share some rioting game withBaby Bob, while Nino raced and barked at their heels.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. The picture of the YOUNG CANON, which faces the contents page in the printed book, has been moved to the appropriate place in the text. The following additional change was made: