The Villa Camellia
The Beverleys did not break their journey in Rome, but merely changed
trains and pushed on southward. Irene was sorry at the time not to see
the imperial city, but afterwards she was glad that her first impression
of an Italian town should have been of Naples. Naples! Is there any
place like it in the whole world? Irene thought not, as she stood on her
veranda next morning and gazed across the blue bay to where Vesuvius was
sending a thin column of smoke into the cloudless sky. Below her lay the
public gardens, in which spring flowers were blooming, though it was
only the end of January, and beyond was a panorama of white houses,
green shutters, palm trees, picturesque boats, and a quay thronged with
traffic. To that harbor and that blue stretch of sea she was bound this
very day, for Father and Mother had arranged to take her straight to her
new school, and leave her there before they established themselves in
their flat.
"We haven't any time for sightseeing at present, dear," said Mrs.
Beverley, when Irene begged for at least a peep at the streets of
Naples. "We must put off these jaunts until the Easter holidays. The
term has begun at the Villa Camellia, and you ought to set to work at
your lessons at once. Don't pull such a doleful face. Be thankful you're
going to school in such a glorious spot. We might have left you at Miss
Gordon's."
"I'd have run away and followed you somehow, Mums darling! I don't mind
being a few miles off, but I couldn't bear to feel the Channel and the
whole of France and Switzerland and Italy lay between us. It's too far."
"Yes, our little family quartette is rather inseparable," agreed Mother.
"It's certainly nice to think that we're all 'within hail.'"
The school, recommended to Mr. and Mrs. Beverley by their American
friend, Mr. Proctor, was situated at the small town of Fossato, not far
from Naples. The easiest way of getting there was by sea, so Irene's
luggage was wheeled down to the quay, and the family embarked on a
coasting steamer. Father and Mother were, of course, taking her, and
Vincent accompanied them, because they could not leave him alone in a
strange city.
"It will be your last holiday though, young man," said Mr. Beverley
jokingly, "so make the most of it. To-morrow you must come with me to
the office and start your new career. I don't know whether the Villa
Camellia observes convent rules, and whether you will be admitted. If
not, you must wait outside the gate while we see Miss Rodgers."
"Oh, surely she wouldn't be so heartless?"
"That remains to be seen. In a foreign country the regulations are
probably very strict."
The Beverleys were not the only British people on board the steamer.
Parties of tourists were going for the day's excursion, and as much
English as Italian or French might be heard spoken among the passengers.
Two groups, who sat near them on deck, attracted Irene's attention. The
central figure of the one was a girl slightly taller than herself--a
girl with a long, pointed nose, dark, hard, bright eyes, penciled
eyebrows, beautiful teeth, and a nice color. She was talking in a loud
and affected voice, and laying down the law on many topics to several
amused and smiling young naval officers who were of the party. An elder
girl, like her but with a sweeter mouth and softer eyes, seemed to be
trying to restrain her, and occasionally exclaimed, "Oh, Mabel!" at some
more than ordinary sally of wit; but the younger girl talked on, posing
in rather whimsical attitudes, and letting her roving glance stray over
the tourists close by, as if judging the effect she was making upon
them.
"She's showing off," decided Irene privately. "Is that 'Villa Camellia'
on the label of her bag? I hope to goodness she's not going to school
with me. Hello! Who's that talking English on the other side? Why,
Little Flaxen for all the world! What's she followed us down here for?"
The small, fair-haired girl, whom they had seen in the train to Dover,
was undoubtedly claiming public notice on their right. Her high-pitched,
childish voice was descanting freely about everything she saw, and
people smiled at her quaint questions and comments. Her mother, still
very pale and languid, made no effort to silence her, and her father
seemed rather to encourage her, and to exploit her remarks for the
entertainment of several gentlemen friends.
A little bored by the evident self-advertisement of these rival belles,
Irene moved away with Vincent to a quieter corner of the deck. She was
to see more of them soon, however. They both disembarked when the
steamer reached Fossato, their luggage was piled upon the carriages, and
she watched them drive away up the steep, narrow road that led into the
town.
The Beverleys had decided to have an early lunch at the hotel by the
quay before taking Irene to school. It was their last meal together, so
she was allowed to choose the menu, and regaled the family on hitherto
unknown Italian dishes, winding up with coffee, ices, and chocolates.
"I'm glad you don't cater for us every day, Renie, or I should soon be
ruined," said Father, as the waiter brought him the bill. "Now are you
ready? If we don't hurry and get you up quickly to school we shall miss
the boat back to Naples. Another package of chocolates! You
unconscionable child! Well, put it in your pocket and console yourself
with it at bedtime. The concierge says our _vetturino_ is waiting--not
that any Italian coachman minds doing that! All the same, time is short
and we had better make a start."
In that first drive through the narrow, steep, stone-paved streets of
Fossato Irene was too excited to take in any details except a general
impression of rich, foreign color and high, white walls. Afterwards,
when she came to know the town better, she realized its subtler points.
She felt as one in a dream when the carriage turned through a great
gate, and passed along an avenue of orange trees to a large, square
house, color-washed pink, and approached by a flight of marble steps.
What happened next she could never clearly recall. She remembered the
agony of a short wait in the drawing-room until Miss Rodgers arrived,
how the whole party, including Vincent, were shown some of the principal
rooms of the house, an agitated moment of good-by kisses, then the sound
of departing wheels, and a sudden overwhelming sensation that, for the
first time in her life, she was alone in a foreign land. Foreign and yet
familiar, for the Villa Camellia was a skillful combination of the best
out of several countries. Its setting was Italian, its decorations were
French, and its fifty-six pupils were all unmistakably and undoubtedly
Anglo-Saxon. Irene was assured on this point immediately, for Miss
Rodgers, calling to a girl who was passing down the corridor, gave the
newcomer into her charge with instructions to take her straight to the
senior recreation room.
"Our afternoon classes begin at 2.30," she remarked, "but you will have
just ten minutes in which to be introduced to some of your
schoolfellows. Elsie Craig will show you everything."
Elsie made no remark to Irene--perhaps she was shy--but, starting off at
a quick pace, led her down a long passage into a room on the ground
floor. It was a pleasant room with a French window that opened out on to
a veranda, where, over a marble balustrade, there was a view of an
orange garden and the sea. Round a table were collected several older
girls, watching with deep interest a kettle, which was beginning to
sing, upon a spirit-lamp. They looked up with surprise as Elsie ushered
in the new pupil.
"Hello! You don't mean to tell us there's another of them!" exclaimed a
dark girl with a long pigtail. "We've had two already! Why are they
pouring on us to-day, I should like to know? It's a perfect deluge."
"I hate folks butting in when the term has begun," said another
grumpily.
"We shall be swamped with 'freshies' soon," grunted the owner of the
spirit-lamp. "If they expect coffee I tell them beforehand they just
won't get it."
"She says her name's Irene Beverley," volunteered Elsie Craig, in a
perfunctory voice, as if she were performing an obvious duty and getting
it over.
"Oh, indeed!"
"Well, now we know, so there's an end of it."
It could hardly be called a flattering reception. The general attitude
of the girls was the reverse of friendly. The kettle was suddenly
boiling, and they were concentrating their attention upon the making of
the coffee, and rather ostentatiously leaving the stranger outside the
charmed circle. Irene, used to school life, knew, however, that she was
on trial, and that on her present behavior would probably depend the
whole of her future career. She did not attempt to force her unwelcome
presence upon her companions, but, withdrawing to the window, pretended
to be utterly absorbed in contemplation of the scenery. She kept the
corner of her eye, nevertheless, upon the group at the table. The girl
with the long pigtail had made the coffee and was pouring it into cups.
A shorter girl nudged her and whispered something, at which she shook
her head emphatically. But the short girl persisted.
"I'm superstitious," affirmed the latter aloud. "One's for sorrow, two's
for joy, and three's for luck! She's the third to-day and she may be a
mascot."
"I'd rather have chocolates than mascots," said an injured voice from
behind a coffee-cup.
The chance remark gave Irene the very opportunity she needed. She
suddenly remembered the chocolates her father had handed her before she
left the hotel, and, producing the package, she offered its contents.
After a visible moment of hesitation the girl with the long pigtail
accepted her hospitality, and passed the delicacies round. Instantly all
were chumping almonds, and the icy atmosphere thawed into summer.
Everybody began to talk at once.
"There's a spare cup here if you'd like some coffee. Yes, Rachel, I
_shall_ offer it!"
"I suppose you're over fourteen?"
"We may make coffee after lunch if we're seniors, but the kids aren't
allowed any."
"You've just one minute to drink it in before the bell rings."
"Hustle up if you want to finish it."
"I'll bet a cookie you're a real sport."
"There's the bell! Don't choke or you'll blight your young career."
"We've got to scoot quick!"
"Come along with me and I'll show you where."
Irene, taken in tow by a girl with a freckled nose, was hurried along
the corridor and up the stairs to the classrooms. Although she had
scarcely spoken a word she had undoubtedly gained a victory, and had
established her welcome among at least a section of her schoolfellows.
She did not yet know their names, but names are a detail compared with
personalities, and with some members of the coffee-party she felt that
she might ultimately become chums.
"Don't I bless Dad for those chocs!" she thought as she took her seat
at a desk. "They worked the trick. If I'd had nothing to offer that crew
I might have sat out in the cold forevermore. The dark pigtail is decent
enough, but if it comes to a matter of chumming give me 'Freckles' for
choice."
The Villa Camellia was a high-class boarding-school for
English-speaking girls whose parents were residents, permanently or
temporarily, in the neighborhood of Naples. It was generally described
as an Anglo-American college, for the arrangements were accommodated to
suit the customs of both sides of the Atlantic. Miss Rodgers and her
partner, Miss Morley, the two principals, came respectively from London
and New York; one teacher had been trained in Boston, and another at
Oxford, while the British section of the community included girls from
South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand. Pupils belonging to other
European races were not received, the object of the college being to
preserve the nationality of girls who must of necessity be educated in a
foreign land, and whose parents did not wish them to attend Italian
schools. The arrangements were of course modified by the climate and by
the customs of the country. Outwardly the Villa Camellia resembled a
convent. Its garden was surrounded by immensely high walls edged with
broken glass, and the only entrance was by the great gate, which was
solemnly unlocked by old Antonio, the porter, who inspected all comers
through a grille before granting them admittance. Small parties in
charge of a teacher were taken at stated times for walks or excursions
in the neighborhood, but no girl might ever go out unless escorted by a
mistress or by her parents. The Villa Camellia was a little world in
itself, and as much retired from the town of Fossato as the great, gray
monastery that crowned the summit of the neighboring mountain.
Fortunately the grounds were very large, so there was room for most of
the activities in which the girls cared to indulge. Tennis and netball
were the principal games. There were several courts, and there was a
gymnasium, where the school assembled for exercise on wet days. From two
flagstaffs on the roof floated the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes
respectively. It was an understood fact that here Britannia and Columbia
marched hand in hand with an _entente cordiale_ that recognized no
distinctions whatsoever.
Miss Rodgers and Miss Morley, who respectively represented the
interests of Britain and America, were tremendous friends. Miss Rodgers
was fair and rather plump and rosy-faced and calm, with a manner that
parents described as "motherly," and a leaning towards mathematics as
the basis of a sound education. Miss Morley, on the contrary, was thin
and dark and excitable, and taught the English literature and the
general knowledge classes, and was rumored--though this no doubt was
libel--to dislike mathematics to the extent of not even adequately
keeping her own private accounts. The pair were such opposites that they
worked in absolute harmony, Miss Rodgers being mainly responsible for
the discipline of the establishment, and acting judge and court of
appeal in her study, while Miss Morley supplied the initiative, and kept
the girls interested in a large number of pursuits and hobbies which
could be carried on within the walls of the house and garden.
As regards the fifty-six British and American maidens who made up this
brisk little community we will leave some of them to speak for
themselves in the next chapter.