THE VILLA LUCIA.
"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 for _you_."
"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?--_prepared_ for 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 to _you_ what
Irene is like. A rough and noisy boy like you can't expect a stranger to
put up with him as _we_ do."
"She's not a stranger," said Willy. "She is a _cousin_, 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 'You
_shan'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 she _is_ provoking, and you don't know _how_
provoking."
"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, and _when_ I come back you
_will_ tell 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."
"_Take_ her 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.
"I _can_ read," she said, "and I can speak French and Italian; I daresay
Irene can't do that."
"Well, _that's_ nothing," 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."
[Illustration: Sleeping Baby]