AWAY FROM GIBRALTAR
As the _Ariadne_ steamed away from Gibraltar, the harbor looked very
unlike that of the afternoon. It was now cool, and dark except when lit
by flashes from the searchlights. The warships that had looked so sombre
in the afternoon were now outlined by rows of tiny electric lights, and
myriads of lights twinkled from the town lying along the face of the
Rock.
With so much beauty outside, Irma could not leave the deck of the
_Ariadne_. As she stood there alone, the little old gentleman
approached. "There is to be a sham fight in the harbor to-night. That
accounts for the unusual illumination."
"It is too beautiful for words. I must stay until we see the other face
of the Rock--the picture side."
"I wish I could stay, but I came only to bring you this. It may be of
use to you, as you can have no dinner."
"No dinner! But I wish none."
"Some of your friends, however, may need something more substantial than
the view. The company is saving an honest penny by allowing those who
went ashore to abstain from dinner. It would have been served as usual,
it was ready, the stewards say, if there had been passengers here to eat
it."
"But they were all ashore."
"The passengers coming on at Gibraltar were here. Others could have
been, but they preferred sightseeing at Gibraltar. Consequently they
were punished."
The company's meanness seemed absurd, but as the old gentleman departed,
Irma thanked him warmly for his gift,--a good-sized basket filled with
fruit and cakes.
For some time Irma strained her eyes for a glimpse of the other side of
the Rock. At length, against the sky rose a huge bulk that might have
escaped a less keen vision. Almost instantly a passing cloud darkened
the sky, and the giant became invisible.
When Irma went inside she found a discontented crowd gathered in
passageways and in the library. Loud were the complaints that greeted
her of the company's cruelty in omitting dinner.
"We went ashore without even our usual afternoon tea, and no one had
time to think of food at Gibraltar."
Irma held out her basket. "A fairy godfather visited me," she said, "but
I really do not know just what he gave me. Come, share it with me."
Aunt Caroline looked surprised; Uncle Jim gave an expressive whistle,
while even on Marion's face was an expression of curiosity.
"I do not even know what is in the basket," repeated Irma, "though the
fairy godfather said it held fruit and cakes."
"I should say so," exclaimed Uncle Jim lifting the cover. "What fruit!
And that cake looks as if it had been made in Paris. Just now these are
much more attractive than those spangled scarfs I wrestled for with that
Hindu. By the way, Irma, are these for show or use? They look too good
to eat."
"Try them and see," answered Irma.
"I'd be more eager to eat if I knew the name of the fairy godfather."
"I don't know it myself," said Irma.
"This feast will dull our appetites for the nine o'clock rarebit,"
interposed Uncle Jim, who had made a test of the basket's contents.
"I am sure a fairy godfather wouldn't use poison," and Aunt Caroline
followed Uncle Jim's example.
When Irma turned to offer the basket to Marion, he had left the group.
"Poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Caroline. "He told me he felt very faint. It
seems he had little luncheon. Perhaps we shall find him in the dining
saloon."
But when they descended to the dining saloon, Marion was not there, nor
did they see him again that night. Yet, if she could not share the old
gentleman's gift with Marion, Irma found Muriel most grateful for a
portion. For some time the two girls sat together at one end of the long
table, comparing notes about Gibraltar. They stayed together so late,
indeed, that just before the lights were put out Aunt Caroline appeared.
"Why, Irma, my dear, after this exciting day I should think you would
need rest earlier than usual."
"Perhaps so, Aunt Caroline. But the day has been so exciting that I
cannot feel sleepy."
"It has grown foggy," said Aunt Caroline, as they went to their room.
"I do not like fog, and I am glad that we have but two or three more
nights at sea."
Once in her berth Irma soon slept. She thought indeed that she had been
asleep for hours, when suddenly she woke. It must be morning! But as she
opened her eyes, not a glimmer of light came through the porthole. What
had wakened her? Then she realized that the boat was still. What had
happened? She was conscious of persons walking on the decks above, of
voices far away, even of an occasional shout. Ought she to waken Aunt
Caroline? While her thoughts were running thus, she had jumped from her
berth, and a moment later, in wrapper and moccasins, had made her way to
the deck. A few other passengers were moving about, and a group of
stewards and stewardesses stood at the head of the stairs, as if
awaiting orders.
"What is it?" she cried anxiously. Before her question had been
answered, some one shoved her arm rather roughly. Looking up she saw
that Marion had come up behind her.
"What are you doing here?" he said brusquely. "You will get your death.
It is very cold."
Irma shivered. In spite of her long cape she was half frozen. The night
air was chilly, and it was on this account that Marion pulled her from
the open door.
"Are we in danger? I thought I wouldn't wake Aunt Caroline until I
knew."
At this moment Marion, unfortunately, smiled. He was fully dressed and
wore a long overcoat. With his well-brushed hair he presented a strong
contrast to poor, dishevelled Irma. Naturally, then, she resented his
smile, occasioned, she thought, by her untidy appearance.
"You are a very disagreeable boy," she cried angrily. "I wish I had told
you so long ago." Thereupon Irma turned toward the stewards, among whom
she recognized the man who took care of her stateroom.
"No, Miss, we're not in danger," he answered. "It's foggy, and there was
something wrong about signals, but we stopped just in time to get clear
of a man-of-war. It would have been pretty bad if she had run into us.
So go back to your bed, Miss; it's all right now, and we're starting up
again."
Marion was unhappy as he watched Irma walking downstairs. Evidently he
had in some way offended her; but how? She was an amiable girl; he was
sure of this. Therefore his own offence must have been very serious. "It
is no use," said Marion bitterly, "I cannot expect people to like me. Of
course, she started with a prejudice, and she will never get over it."
Now Irma, when she returned to her berth, though reassured by what the
steward had said, did not at once fall asleep. For a long time she lay
with eyes wide open listening to many strange sounds, some real, some
imaginary. But at last, when a metallic hammering had continued for
hours, as it seemed to her, she was quite sure something had happened to
the boilers, and she drowsily hoped the _Ariadne_ would keep afloat
until morning. It would be so much easier to get off in the lifeboats by
daylight. Then she must have fallen asleep. At least the next thing of
which she was aware was Aunt Caroline's loud whisper to the stewardess.
"We won't disturb her. She can sleep until luncheon."
Aunt Caroline laughed, when Irma, looking through the curtains of her
berth, asked the time.
"Past breakfast time, my dear, but the stewardess will bring you hot
coffee and toast. You will have only a short hour to wait for luncheon."
Thus Irma broke her record of never missing a meal in the dining-room,
and shortened a day that otherwise would have seemed very long, as the
fog did not clear until late afternoon.
All this day Marion spent in a corner of the library. The ship's
collection of books contained nothing very recent, but in it were one or
two old favorites, whom for the time he preferred as companions to any
of his fellow passengers. As to Irma, he tried to put her out of his
mind. The world for him again became a dull, stupid place, and most of
its inhabitants were his enemies.
Strange as it may seem, Irma had soon forgotten her pettishness of the
night before. Her fright, the noises from the boiler room, all had
seemed a kind of nightmare. So on Thursday, which might be their last
full day at sea, she wondered that Marion, who had seemed so friendly at
Gibraltar, should now be so unsocial.
She and Muriel spent much time together. Though they had not been
fortunate enough to see any whales, they did catch sight of a few
porpoises, spouting in the water not far away, and as the day was
particularly sunny, Irma used her camera to advantage. Not only had she
photographed little Jean and her black nurse earlier, and several
passengers whom she best knew, but she caught the captain and several of
the officers going the rounds at morning inspection, and some of the
crew at fire drill.
She even leaned over the railing and turned her camera toward the
steerage. As she steadied her camera, many turned their eyes toward her.
Two or three smiled and waved their hands in a friendly manner.
Altogether there was not a large number. In the spring, the captain had
told her, not many immigrants returned to Europe. Those now going back
to Italy were chiefly those whom the Government had forbidden to land.
Some others, who had been in America a short time, were also sent back
at the public expense, because likely to become public charges.
Muriel and Irma had frequently speculated about the character of
several whom they had seen on the third cabin deck from day to day. One
group of rough men with bright handkerchiefs twisted about their necks,
and caps pulled over their eyes, they called anarchists, and they had
theories about most of the others. Both girls had a strong desire to
make a tour of the steerage quarters, under the guidance of the ship's
doctor. He assured Aunt Caroline that there was no contagious disease.
One poor woman had consumption, and might not live to reach Italy, and
two or three others were in a decline, but there would be no danger for
the young ladies.
But neither Muriel's mother nor Aunt Caroline would consent to let the
girls see more of the third cabin than they could observe from their own
deck.
"I really believe," said Irma, "that Aunt Caroline thinks I will catch
something from these negatives of the steerage. She is so nervous about
it."
"Then I should think she would be unwilling to have Marion spend so much
time there."
"Marion! oh, she doesn't care to have him down there. I remember what
she said when he asked her one day."
"Well, he goes just the same. I heard my mother and Mademoiselle talking
about it only yesterday."
This so surprised Irma that she closed her camera and took no more
pictures.
"I wonder," she said, as if to change the subject, "why that old woman
sits there in the corner with her hands over her face. Those little
girls, I think, must be her grandchildren. Generally she has the baby in
her arms, but the two older girls seem to be taking care of it to-day,
and the oldest isn't here at all. She's about my age. Why, there she is,
sitting by herself, and her eyes are very red, as if she had been
crying."
Later in the day, after Muriel had left her, Irma sat down on a settee
at the uncovered end of the deck where a number of people, old and
young, were playing shuffleboard. Just then the ship's doctor passed,
and she thought it a good time to ask him about the old woman in the
steerage.
"The old woman is downhearted. Her daughter, the mother of the four
girls, died a couple of days ago. She was longing to live until she
reached Italy, was sure, in fact, that once there she would recover. But
from the first I knew her case was hopeless, and we buried her at sea
the night before we touched at Gibraltar."
"Oh," sighed Irma, "it must be hard for the children."
"Yes, very hard. You see it's only a short time since they went out
from Italy. The father had a trade, but a week or two after landing he
was taken ill, and in another week or two had died. Charitable societies
looked after them for a while. They came under the law that requires
those likely to become a public charge to be sent back. They have no
friends in America."
"I suppose they have in Italy."
"Yes, and though probably they, too, are poor, still the family will be
better off there. With no real wage-earner I do not see what they could
do in your country."
"I can't see what they will do in Italy, if they have no money."
"Oh, they have enough to take them up to Fiesole. That is where they
live. But there, you must know something about it; some of the
passengers are taking up a collection for them."
"Why, no! I have heard nothing of it."
"That's strange, for that young man in your party, Marion Horton, is
interested. He's been very good, too, to another steerage passenger, a
young fellow from Bologna, who is paying his own way back. He has taken
Italian lessons from him, I believe."
"You surprise me," said Irma, as the doctor moved away. Could it be
that Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim knew nothing of Marion's doings? Later
others spoke to her about the death of the Italian woman and the needs
of her family, and then Muriel came to say that she had given five
dollars to the fund a Mrs. Brown was gathering, "and do you know that
Marion Horton has charge of it? Isn't it funny he never told you?"
The more Irma thought about it the more certain she became that Marion
hesitated about letting Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim know that he was in
the habit of visiting the steerage. While they had no right, perhaps, to
dictate to a boy of seventeen, still Aunt Caroline had expressed herself
strongly against his going to the third cabin. Evidently he did not wish
her to know that he had disregarded her wishes. What he was unwilling to
tell Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim, he would hardly confide to Irma. It
happened, however, that at dinner that evening Marion himself told the
story of the old grandmother and her young charges. But though he spoke
of the little fund that had been raised, he did not mention his own
interest in it.
"Some one came to me yesterday," said Uncle Jim, when Marion had
finished, "and I made a contribution. I did not know the exact need, but
you have made it now quite clear."
She approached him as he was starting out on deck.
"Here is a dollar; please add it to the fund," said Irma to Marion after
dinner. Marion glanced at her in astonishment. But he did not take her
money. Instead he waved his hand as if to push it away.
"No, no," he replied. "No, we do not need it. We have enough."
Then, without another glance at Irma, he walked away.
"Does he think I offer too little, or does he dislike me so much that he
won't take my money?" But there was no one to answer her question.
It was now Irma's turn to feel hurt. Small as her offering was, the
dollar meant some sacrifice. At least she had taken it from the little
sum she had set aside for presents for the family and Lucy and Gertrude
and other friends. From her it was a larger sum than twenty dollars from
Muriel. So it was trying to have her intended gift treated disdainfully.
That evening, as she sat on deck, wondering if this would really be her
last night at sea, some one dropped into the empty chair beside hers.
"Why so quiet, god-daughter?" It was the voice of the old gentleman, but
how had he learned that she sometimes called him the "fairy godfather?"
She was glad now to see him. She might not have many more of those
pleasant talks with him, unless, perhaps, their paths should cross in
Italy. But she had never ventured to ask him just where he was going.
Now, contrary to his habit, the old gentleman talked less of the
countries he had visited in the past. In some way, before she realized
it, he had turned the conversation in the direction of Marion, and after
he had left her, Irma was conscious that she had given him much more
information than she ought to have given a stranger.
"Yes, yes," he had exclaimed, "I can see just what he is like. Willful
as ever," and with an abrupt "good night" he had hurried away.
"It isn't quite fair that we should all be so pleased at the prospect
of landing," said Uncle Jim Friday morning. "Every one seems to think
the sooner we are in Naples the better. But we've had a fine trip, no
accidents, few seasick, few homesick. Yet here we are with our steamer
trunks packed, almost ready to swim ashore, rather than stay longer on
the _Ariadne_."
"It's human nature, always longing for change. But we might as well
possess our souls in patience. Those who know say it will be late
afternoon before we even catch a glimpse of the Bay of Naples."
"Oh, Aunt Caroline!"
"There, Irma, you are as impatient as the rest of us. It is really true
that we may not land until evening."
Evidently Aunt Caroline spoke with good authority. It was late afternoon
before they saw the rugged heights of Ischia in the distance. They were
at dinner when they actually passed it, and when they entered the lovely
Bay of Naples, the sun had set, and it was too dark to see its actual
beauties clearly. When at last they were anchored, it was as if they
were in fairyland. The city was a semicircle of brilliant lights curving
in front of them. They were surrounded by boats of every size, all of
them carrying lights.
"Must we land again in tenders?" sighed Irma. "Are there no wharves in
Europe?"
A fine mist was falling.
"Before we go ashore it may be a heavy rain," said Uncle Jim. "If you
agree, we can do as the larger number here intend to do. We can sleep on
shipboard, and in the morning make a fresh start."
The others agreed with Uncle Jim, and remained out on deck to watch the
embarkation of those who were going ashore. While they waited, many
little boats pushed near the _Ariadne_. In one a quartette sang the
sweet Neapolitan songs. In another some stringed instruments played a
soft melody. Sometimes the music stopped, while players or singers
scrambled for the coppers thrown to the boats by passengers on deck.
Then, when the music was resumed, the sound of laughter was mingled with
it.
Presently a procession of immigrants passed along the deck, carrying
bundles and baskets. They made their way slowly to the gangway to
descend to the tender.
"I wonder if they are glad to be coming home," whispered Irma to Uncle
Jim.
"No, I fancy most of them prefer America."
Just then, at the sound of laughter behind them, Irma and her uncle
turned about to see a tall Italian stooping to pick some bananas from
the deck. Over his shoulder was a long string of bananas, bought
probably in the Azores. Some that were overripe had fallen to the deck.
Hardly had he picked these up, when two or three others fell--then
others. The poor fellow was in despair. He did not wish to leave them.
But he had no way of carrying them. For besides the string of bananas he
had to take care of his bundle of clothing carried clumsily under the
other arm. While he stood there half dazed, as a companion stooped to
help him, suddenly there was a movement in the group of bystanders. A
brown linen bag was thrown down at his feet, and a voice cried in
Italian, "There, put your bananas in the bag, put them all in and take
the bag home with you."
"Well done, Marion," cried Uncle Jim, for he and Irma had instantly
recognized Marion's voice. "Come here and tell us how you happened to
think of it."
"Oh, it was easy enough to think of the bag. It was the last thing I
put in the tray of my trunk. I was only afraid I couldn't get back with
it in time. I dare say the poor wretch meant to sell those bananas at a
profit when he lands, and I didn't wish to have his trade spoiled."
"But where in the world did you learn the Italian you hurled at him? He
seemed to understand it, too."
"Oh, I knew a few words before I left home, and here on shipboard I have
managed to pick up a few more."
Did Marion speak with embarrassment, or did Irma imagine this because
she had heard of his going to the steerage for lessons?
"_Addio, addio_," cried the owner of the bananas, who had completed his
task of packing the fruit in Marion's bag.
"_Addio, addio_," responded Marion, while the man, as he passed on to
the gangway, poured forth a flood of thanks.
When the tender had steamed off, Irma went below. She needed a good
night's rest, for breakfast was to be at half past seven.
In the misty morning the tender made a quick run to the dock. Just as
they pushed away from the _Ariadne_ Irma heard a voice crying, "Good-by,
god-daughter." It was the little old gentleman. Since evening she had
not seen him, and now she was ashamed that she had not tried to find him
for a word of farewell.
"Good-by, good-by," she cried, waving her handkerchief. But already he
had slipped back out of sight.
"To whom were you calling?" asked Aunt Caroline.
"To the fairy godfather."
"If you were not generally so sensible, sometimes I should think you
quite out of your mind," rejoined Aunt Caroline. "Except for that fruit
at Gibraltar, your fairy godfather would seem a myth. For neither your
uncle nor I ever saw such a person on the _Ariadne_. Did you, Marion?"
"Of course not," replied Marion shortly.
But Irma only smiled. She knew there was such a person.