Anna Fuller - A Bookful of Girls

The deck presented a festal appearance for the occasion. Rows of Japanese lanterns were strung from side to side against the white background of awning and deckhouse, and the flags of many nations lent their gay colours to the pretty scene. The ship’s orchestra was in its element, playing with a “go” and rhythm which seemed caught from the pulsing movement of the ship itself.

As Blythe, with Mr. DeWitt, who had been a famous dancer in his day, led off the Virginia Reel, she wondered how it would strike the sailors of a passing brig, – this gay apparition of light and music, riding the great, dark, solemn sea.

The dance itself was rather a staid, middle-aged affair, for Blythe was the only young girl on board, and none but the youngest or the surest-footed could put much spirit into a dance where the law of gravitation was apparently changing base from moment to moment. Blythe and her partner, however, took little account of the moving floor beneath their feet, or the hesitating demeanour of their companions. One after another, even the most reluctant and self-distrustful of the revellers found themselves caught up into active participation in the figure.

In a quiet corner of the deck sat Mrs. Halliday, with little Cecilia beside her, snugly stowed away in a nest of steamer-rugs; for they could not bear to take her below, out of the fresh, invigorating air. Their little guest spoke hardly any English, but, although Mrs. Halliday was under the impression that she herself spoke Italian, the child seemed more conversable in Blythe’s company than in that of any one else, not excepting Mr. Grey, about whose linguistic accomplishments there could be no question.

Accordingly when, the Virginia Reel being finished, Blythe came and sat on the foot of the little girl’s chair, they fell into an animated conversation, each in her own tongue. And presently, during a pause in the music, the Italian Count chanced to pass their way, and, stopping in his solitary promenade, appeared to give ear to their talk.

Suddenly he stooped, and, looking into the animated face of the child, inquired in his own tongue; “What is thy name, little one?”

But when the pure, liquid, childish voice answered “Cecilia Dopo,” he merely lifted his hat and, bowing ceremoniously, passed on.

Mr. Grey, who had watched the little scene from a distance, joined the group a moment later and, taking a vacant chair beside Mrs. Halliday, remarked:

“I think we shall have to cultivate the old gentleman. He might be induced to lend a hand in behalf of this young person. They are both Florentines,” he added, thoughtfully, “and Florentine society is not large.”

“Then you really believe the nurse is right about the child?” Mrs. Halliday asked.

“Oh, I shouldn’t dare say that the mother was a great lady,” he returned; “but there is certainly something high-bred about the little thing.”

“They often have that air,” Mrs. Halliday demurred, – “even the beggar children.”

“Yes; to our eyes. But, do you know, I rather think the Italians themselves can tell the difference. I would rather trust Giuditta’s judgment than my own. Besides,” he added, after a long pause, during which he had been watching the expressive face of the child. “Besides, – there’s that Giovanni Bellini. That sort of thing doesn’t often stray into low society.”

At this juncture the tall Italian moved again into their neighbourhood, and stood, at a point where the awning had been drawn back, gazing, with a preoccupied air, out to sea.

Rising from his seat, Mr. Grey approached him, remarking abruptly, and with a jerk of the head toward Cecilia, “Florentine, is she not?”

“ Sicuro ,” was the grave reply; upon which the Count moved away, to be seen no more that evening.

As the Englishman rejoined them after this laconic interview, Blythe greeted him with a new theory.

“Do you know,” she said, “I used to think the Count was haughty and disagreeable, but I have changed my mind.”

“That only shows how susceptible you good Republicans are to any sign of attention from the nobility,” was the teasing reply.

“Perhaps you are right,” Blythe returned, with the fair-mindedness which distinguished her. “You know I never saw a titled person before, excepting one red-headed English Lord, who hadn’t any manners. I’ve often thought I should like, of all things, to know a King or Queen really well!”

“You don’t say so!” Mr. Grey laughed. “And what’s your opinion now, of the old gentleman, since he deigned to interrupt your conversation?”

“I believe he is unhappy.”

“What makes you think so?”

“There’s an unhappy look away back in his eyes. I never looked in before, – and then–”

“And then–?”

“There’s something about his voice.”

“Yes; Tuscan, you know.”

“Oh, is that it? Well, any way, I like him!”

“If that’s the case, perhaps you could make better headway with him than I.”

“But I don’t speak Italian.”

“Perhaps you speak French.”

“I know my conjugations,” was the modest admission.

“And I’m sure he would be enchanted to hear them,” Mr. Grey laughed, as the orchestra struck into the familiar music of the Lancers, causing him to beat a retreat into the smoking-room.

And while Blythe danced gaily and heartily with a boy somewhat younger than herself, and not quite as tall, her little protégée fell into a deep sleep. And presently, the dance being over, the faithful Gustav carried her down to Blythe’s stateroom, where she was snugly tucked away in the gently rocking cradle of the lower berth.

As for Blythe, thus relegated to the upper berth, she entered promptly into an agreeable dreamland, where she found herself speaking Italian fluently, and where she discovered, to her extreme satisfaction, that the Queen of Italy was her bosom friend!

It was pretty to see the little Signorina revive under the favouring influences of prosperity; and indeed the soft airs of the southern seas were never sweeter nor more caressing than those which came to console our voyagers for their short-lived storm.

Life was full of interest and excitement for the little girl. The heavy lassitude of her steerage days had fallen from her, and already that first morning a delicate glow of returning vigour touched the little cheek.

“She’s picking up, isn’t she?” Mr. DeWitt remarked, as he joined Blythe and the child at the head of the steerage gangway, where the little one was throwing enthusiastic kisses and musical Italian phrases down upon the hardly less radiant Giuditta.

“Oh, yes!” was the confident reply. “She’s a different child since her saltwater bath and her big bowl of oatmeal. Mamma says she really has a splendid physique, only she was smothering down there in the steerage.”

Then Mr. DeWitt stooped and, lifting the child, set her on the railing, where she could get a better view of her faithful friend below.

“There! How do you like that?” he inquired.

Upon which the little girl, finding herself unexpectedly on a level with Blythe’s face, put up her tiny hand and stroked her cheek.

“Like-a Signorina,” she remarked with apparent irrelevance.

“Oh! You do, do you? Well, she’s a nice girl.”

“Nice-a girl-a,” the child repeated, adding a vowel, Italian fashion, to each word.

Then, with an appreciative look into the pleasant, whiskered countenance, whose owner was holding her so securely on her precarious perch, she pressed her little hand gently against his waistcoat, and gravely remarked, “Nice-a girl-a, anche il Signore !”

“So! I’m a nice girl too, am I?” the old gentleman replied, much elated with the compliment.