VILLA FIRENZE.
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've _played_ together, 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 little _too_ smart 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,--
"Then _you_ are 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 a _very_ little, 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 is _not_ my 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 am _not_ a baby, and I love Irene, and she
is _not_ to 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.
But _that_ did 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 it _is_ so 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.
[Illustration: Mountain Scene]