"Captured by Sanfordites!" exclaimed Robin dramatically. "What fate is
left to us now?" Despite her tragic utterance, she proceeded to a
vigorous hand-shaking with Muriel.
"Now why couldn't you have stayed upstairs like nice children and
praised our modest efforts in your behalf instead of prancing down
stairs to head us off?" inquired Phyllis in pretended disgust. "Not one
of you has the proper idea of the romance which should attend a
serenade. Of course, you didn't _know_ who was singing to you, and, of
course, you just simply _had_ to find out."
"Don't delude yourself with any such wild idea," Jerry made haste to
retort. "We knew Robin's voice the minute she opened her mouth to sing
'How Fair Art Thou.' Now which one of us were you particularly referring
to in that number? I took it straight to myself. Of course I _may_ be a
trifle presumptuous, Ahem!"
"Yes; 'Ahem!'" mimicked Phyllis. "You are just the same good old, funny
old scout, Jeremiah. Somebody please hold my violin while I embrace
Jeremiah."
"Hold it yourself," laughed Portia. "We have fond welcomes of our own to
hand around and need the use of our arms."
Full of the happiness of the meeting the running treble of girlhood,
mingled with ripples of gay, light laughter, was music in itself.
"The Moore Symphony Orchestra and Concert Company will have to be moving
on," Elaine reminded after fifteen minutes had winged away. "This is
Phil's organization but she seems to have forgotten all about it. We are
supposed to serenade Barbara Severn, Isabel Keller and Miss Humphrey
while the night is yet young. I can see where someone of the trio will
have to be unserenaded this evening."
"Couldn't you serenade them tomorrow night?" coaxed Marjorie. "We had it
all planned to go to Baretti's before we hustled down to head you off.
The instant I recognized Robin's heavenly soprano I knew that the
Silvertonites were under our windows. I guess the rest knew, too. We
didn't want to talk while you were singing."
"Very polite in you, I am sure." In the darkness Elaine essayed a
profound bow. Result, her head came into smart contact with Blanche's
guitar.
"Steady there! I need my guitar for the next orchestral spasm." Blanche
swung the instrument under her arm out of harm's way.
"I need my head, too," giggled Elaine, ruefully rubbing that slightly
injured member.
"Do serenade the others tomorrow night." Ronny now added her plea. "How
would you like to take us along with you, then? Not to sing, but just
for company, you know. I never went out serenading, and I fully feel the
need of excitement."
"What you folks need is fresh peach ice cream and lots of it," Jerry
advised with crafty enthusiasm. "It's to be had at Giuseppe Baretti's."
"I know of nothing more refreshing to tired soloists than fresh peach
ice cream," seconded Vera. "I leave it to my esteemed friend, Irish
Leila, if I am not entirely correct in this."
"You are. Now what is it that you are quite right about?" Leila had
caught the last sentence and risen to the occasion.
"Such support," murmured Vera, as a laugh arose.
"Is it not now?" Leila blandly commented. "Never worry. There is little
I would not agree with you in, Midget. Be consoled with that handsome
amend. As for you singers and wandering musicians, you had better come
with us.
"We'll feed you on fine white bread of the wheat
And the drip of honey gold:
We'll give you pale clouds for a mantle sweet,
And a handful of stars to hold."
Leila sang lightly the quaint words of an old Irish ditty.
"Can we resist such a prospect?" laughed Phyllis. "How about it, girls?
Is it on with the serenade or on to Baretti's?"
"Baretti's it had better be, since we are invited there by such
distinguished persons," was Robin's decision. "Leila, you are to teach
me that song you were just humming. It is sweet!"
Her companions were nothing loath to abandon their project for the
evening in order to hob-nob with their Wayland Hall friends. They came
to this decision very summarily. Now fourteen strong, the company turned
their steps toward their favorite restaurant.
They were nearing the cluster lights stationed at each side of the wide
walk leading up to the entrance of the tea room, when Lucy Warner
stopped short with: "Oh, girls; I know something that I think would be
nice to do."
"Speak up, respected Luciferous," encouraged Vera. "You say so little it
is a pleasure to listen to you. I wish I could say that of everyone I
know," she added significantly.
"Have you an idea of whom she may be talking about?" quizzed Leila,
rolling her eyes at her companions.
"She certainly doesn't mean us, even if she didn't say 'present company
excepted.'" Muriel beamed at Leila with trustful innocence. "Go ahead,
Luciferous Warniferous, noble Sanfordite, and tell us what's on your
mind."
"I had no idea I was so greatly respected in this crowd. I never before
saw signs of it. Much obliged. This is what I thought of." Lucy came to
the point with her usual celerity. "Why not serenade Signor Baretti? He
is an Italian. The Italians all love music. I know he would like it. You
girls sing and play so beautifully."
"Of course he would." Marjorie was the first to endorse Lucy's proposal
"This is really a fine time for it, too. It's late enough in the evening
so that there won't be many persons in the restaurant."
"It would delight his little, old Giuseppeship," approved Blanche.
"No doubt about it," Robin heartily concurred. "We ought to sing
something from an Italian opera. That would please him most. The Latins
don't quite understand the beauty of our English and American songs."
"We can sing the sextette from 'Lucia,'" proposed Elaine. "It doesn't
matter about the words. We know the music. We have sung that together so
many times we wouldn't make a fizzle of it."
"Yes, and there is the 'Italian Song at Nightfall' that Robin sings so
wonderfully. We can help out on the last part of it." Tucking her violin
under her chin, Phyllis played a few bars of the selection she had
named. "I can play it," she nodded. "I never tried it on the fiddle
before."
"That's two," counted Robin. "For a third and last let's give that
pretty 'Gondelier's Love Song,' by Nevin. It doesn't matter about words
to that, either. There aren't any. People ought to learn to appreciate
songs without words. Giuseppe won't care a hang about anything but the
music. If any of you Wayland Hallites decide to sing with us, sing
nicely. Don't you dare make the tiniest discord."
"She has some opinion of herself as a singer," Leila told the others,
with comically raised brows. "Be easy. We have no wish to lilt wid yez."
Having decided to serenade the unsuspecting proprietor of the tea room,
the next point to be settled was where they should stand to sing.
"Wait a minute. I'll go and look in one of the windows," volunteered
Ronny. "Perhaps I shall be able to see just where he is."
"He is usually at his desk about this time in the evening. We'll gather
around the window nearest where he is sitting," planned Phyllis.
Ronny flitted lightly ahead of her companions, stopping at a window on
the right-hand side, well to the rear. The others followed her more
slowly in order to give her time to make the observation. Before they
reached her she turned from her post and came quickly to them.
"He is back at the last table on the left reading a newspaper. There
isn't a soul in the room but himself," she said in an undertone. "The
time couldn't be more opportune."
"Oh, fine," whispered Robin. "We can go around behind the inn and be
right at the window nearest him."
"The non-singers, I suppose we might call ourselves the trailers, will
politely station our magnificent selves at the next window above the
singers to see how the victim takes it," decided Jerry. "Contrary, 'no.'
I don't hear any opposing voices."
"There mustn't be _any_ voices heard for the next two minutes," warned
Portia Graham. "Slide around the inn and take your places as quietly as
mice."
In gleeful silence the girls divided into two groups, each group taking
up its separate station.
"I hope the night air hasn't played havoc with my strings," breathed
Phyllis. "I don't dare try them. Are we ready?" She rapped softly on the
face of her violin with the bow.
Followed the tense instant that always precedes the performance of an
orchestra, then Phyllis and Robin began the world-known sextette from
"Lucia." Robin had sung it so many times in private to the accompaniment
of her cousin's violin that the attack was perfect. The others took it
up immediately, filling the night with echoing sweetness.
From their position at the next window the watchers saw the dark, solemn
face of the Italian raised in bewildered amazement from his paper. Not
quite comprehending at first the unbidden flood of music which met his
ears, he listened for a moment in patent stupefaction. Soon a smile
began to play about his tight little mouth. It widened into a grin of
positive pleasure. Giuseppe understood that a great honor was being done
him. He was not only being serenaded, but he was listening to the music
of his native country as well.
His varying facial expressions, as the sextette rose and fell, showed
his love of the selection. As it ended, he did an odd thing. He rose
from his chair, bowed his profound thanks toward the window from whence
came the singing, and sat down again, looking expectant.
"He knows very well he's being watched," whispered Marjorie. "Doesn't he
look pleased? I'm so glad you thought of him, Lucy."
Lucy was also showing shy satisfaction at the success of her proposal.
She was secretly more proud of some small triumph of the kind on her
part than of her brilliancy as a student.
Had Signor Baretti been attending a performance of grand opera, he could
not have shown a more evident pleasure in the programme. He listened to
the entertainment so unexpectedly provided him with the rapt air of a
true music-lover.
"There!" softly exclaimed Phyllis, as she lowered her violin. "That's
the end of the programme, Signor Baretti. Now for that fresh peach ice
cream. I shall have coffee and mountain cake with it. I am as hungry as
the average wandering minstrel."
"Let's walk in as calmly as though we had never thought of serenading
Giuseppe," said Robin. "Oh, we can't. I forgot. The orchestra part of
this aggregation is a dead give-away."
"We don't care. He will know it was we who were out there. There is no
one else about but us. I hope he won't think we are a set of little
Tommy Tuckers singing for our suppers. That's a horrible afterthought on
my part," Elaine laughed.
"Come on." Jerry and her group had now joined the singers. "He saw us
but not until you were singing that Nevin selection. He kept staring at
the window where the sound came from. We had our faces right close to
our window and all of a sudden he looked straight at us. You should have
seen him laugh. His whole face broke into funny little smiles."
"He may have thought we were the warblers," suggested Muriel hopefully.
"We can parade into the inn on your glory. If I put on airs he may take
me for the high soprano." She glanced teasingly at Robin.
"Oh, go as far as you like. It won't be the first instance in the
world's history where some have done all the work and others have taken
all the credit," Robin reminded.
In this jesting frame of mind the entire party strolled around to the
inn's main entrance. At the door they found Giuseppe waiting for them,
his dark features wreathed in smiles.
"I wait for you here," he announced, with an eloquent gesture of the
hand. "So I know som' my friendly young ladies from the college sing
just for me. You come in. You are my com'ny. You say what you like. I
give the best. Not since I come this country I hear the singing I like
so much. The Lucia! Ah, that is the one I lov'!
"I tell you the little story while you stan' here. Then you come in.
When I come this country, I am the very poor boy. Come in the steerage.
No much to eat. I fin' work. Then the times hard, I lose work. All over
New York I walk, but don't fin'. I have _no one cent_. I am put from the
bed I rent. I can no pay. For four days I have the nothing eat. I say,
'It is over.' I am this, that I will walk to the river in the night an'
be no more.
"It is the very warm night and I am tired. I walk an' walk." His face
took on a shade of his by-gone hopelessness as he continued. "Soon I
come the river, I think. Then I hear the music. It is in the next street
jus' I go turn into. It is the harp an' violin. Two my countrymen play
the Lucia. I am so sad. I sit on a step an' cry. Pretty soon one these
ask the money gif' for the music. He touch me on shoulder, say very kind
in Italian, '_Che c'e mai?_' That mean, 'What the matter?' He see I am
the Italiano. We look each other. Both cry, then embrac'. He is my
oldes' brother. He come here long before me. My mother an' I, we don't
hear five years. Then my mother die. Two my brothers work in the _vigna_
for the rich vignaiuolo in my country. My father is dead long time. So I
come here.
"My brother give me the eat, the clothes, the place sleep. He have good
room. He work in the day for rich Italian importer. Sometimes he go out
play at night for help his friend who play the harp. He is the old man
an' don't work all the time. So it is I lov' the Lucia. They don't play
that, mebbe I don't sit on that step. Then never fin' my brother. An'
you have please me more than for many years you play the Lucia for me
this night."