IN THE SHADOWS.
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, e 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 where _was_ home? 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.
[Illustration: "DOROTHY FELL FAST ASLEEP."]
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!--e 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."