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CHAPTER I – A MUSICAL WELCOME

“Remember; we are to begin with the ‘Serenata.’ Follow that with ‘How Fair Art Thou’ and ‘Hymn to Hamilton.’ Just as we are leaving, sing ‘How Can I Leave Thee, Dear?’ We will fade away on the last of that. Want to make any changes in the programme?”

Phyllis Moore turned inquiringly to her choristers. There were seven of them including herself, and they were preparing to serenade Marjorie Dean and her four chums. The Lookouts had returned to Hamilton College that afternoon from the long summer vacation. This year, their Silverton Hall friends had arrived before them. Hence Phyllis’s plan to serenade them.

Robina Page, Portia Graham, Blanche Scott, Elaine Hunter, Marie Peyton and Marie’s freshman cousin, Hope Morris, comprised Phyllis’s serenading party. The latter had been invited to participate because she was still company. Incidentally she knew the songs chosen, with the exception of the “Hymn to Hamilton,” and could sing alto. She was, therefore, a valuable asset.

“I hope Leila has managed to cage the girls in Marjorie’s room,” remarked Blanche Scott. “We want all five Sanfordites in on the serenade.”

“Leave it to Irish Leila to cage anything she starts out to cage,” was Robin’s confident assurance. “If she says she will do a thing, she will accomplish it, somehow. Leila is a diplomat, and so clever she is amazing.”

“Vera Mason isn’t far behind her. Those two have chummed together so long their methods are similar. They were the first girls I knew at Hamilton. They met the train I came in on. Nella Sherman and Selma Sanbourne were with them. Two more fine girls. Portia looked pleasantly reminiscent of her reception by the quartette to which she now referred.

“I heard Selma Sanbourne wasn’t coming back. I must ask Leila about that.” Robin made mental note of the question.

“That will be hard on Nella,” observed Elaine Hunter, with her usual ready sympathy. “They have always been such great chums.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but we must be hiking, girls.” In command of the tuneful expedition, Phyllis tucked her violin case under her arm in business-like fashion and cast a critical eye over her flock.

“Be sure you have your instruments of torture with you,” she laughed. “One time, at home, three girls and myself started out to serenade a friend of ours. Before we started we had all been sitting on our veranda, eating ice cream. One of the girls was to accompany us on the mandolin. She walked away and left it on the veranda. She never noticed the omission until we were ready to lift up our voices. So we had to sing without it, for it was over a mile to our house and she couldn’t very well go back after it.”

“Let this be a warning to you mandolin players not to do likewise.” Marie turned a severe eye on Elaine and Portia, who made pretext of clutching their mandolins in a firmer grip.

“My good old guitar is hung to me by a ribbon. I am not likely to go away from here without it.” Blanche patted the smooth, shining back of the guitar.

“We couldn’t have chosen a better time for a serenade,” exulted Robin. “It is a fine night; just dark enough. Besides, there are not many girls back at Wayland Hall yet. We won’t be so conspicuous with our caroling.”

Meanwhile, in a certain room at Wayland Hall, wily Lelia Harper was exerting herself to be agreeable to her Lookout chums. Three of them she had marshaled to Marjorie’s room on plea of showing them souvenirs of a trip she had made through Ireland that summer.

The souvenirs had been heartily admired, but even they could not stem Muriel’s and Jerry’s determined desire to entertain. First Jerry innocently proposed that they all walk over to Baretti’s for ices. Leila and Vera exhibited no enthusiasm at the invitation. Next, Muriel re-proposed the jaunt at her expense. Vera cast an appealing look toward Leila. The latter was equal to the occasion.

“And are you so tired of me and my pictures of my Emerald Isle that you want to hurry me off to Baretti’s to be rid of me?” she questioned, in an offended tone.

“Certainly not, and you needn’t pretend you think so, for you don’t,” retorted Muriel, unabashed. “Your Irish views are wonderful. So is Baretti’s fresh peach ice cream. Helen was there and had some this afternoon. She said it was better than ever. I was only trying to be hospitable and so was Jerry. Sorry you had to take me too personally.” Muriel now strove to simulate offense. She turned up her nose, tossed her head and burst out laughing. “It’s no use,” she said, “I couldn’t really fuss with you if I tried, Leila Greatheart.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Leila returned with inimitable dryness.

“Lots of time for Baretti’s and ice cream yet tonight. It’s only half-past eight.” Marjorie indicated the wall clock with a slight move of her head. “We can leave here about nine. We’ll be there by ten after.”

“Certainly; we have oceans of time,” Leila agreed with alacrity. “The ten-thirty rule is still on a vacation and won’t be back for a week or so.”

“Oh, I haven’t told you about my new car,” Vera began with sudden inspiration. “Father bought it for me in August. It is a beauty. He is going to send James, his chauffeur, here with it. It may arrive tomorrow. I hope it does.” Vera launched into a description of her car with intent to kill time. Phyllis had set the hour for the serenade to the Lookouts at a quarter to nine.

“It will be good and dark then,” she had told Leila and Vera. “We will have to come as early as that, for we are going to Acasia House to serenade Barbara Severn, and to Alston Terrace to sing to Isabel Keller. Last, we are going to serenade Miss Humphrey. We’ll have to hustle, in order to go the rounds and get back to Silverton Hall before eleven o’clock. I depend on you, Leila, to keep that lively bunch of Sanfordites in until we get there.”

Leila, aided by Vera, was now endeavoring to carry out Phyllis’s request. She was privately hoping that the serenaders would be on time. Should they delay until nine or after, they were quite likely to gather in under the window of a deserted room.

Readers of the “Marjorie Dean High School Series” have long been in touch with Marjorie Dean and the friends of her high school days. “Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman,” recounted her advent into Sanford High School and what happened to her during her first year there. “Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore,” “Marjorie Dean, High School Junior,” and “Marjorie Dean, High School Senior,” completed a series of stories which dealt entirely with Marjorie’s four years’ course at Sanford High School. Admirers of the loyal-hearted, high-principled young girl, who became a power at high school because of her many fine qualities, will recall her ardent wish to enroll as a student at Hamilton College when she should have finished her high school days.

In “Marjorie Dean, College Freshman,” will be found the account of Marjorie’s doings as a freshman at Hamilton College. Entering college full of noble resolves and high ideals, she was not disappointed in her Alma Mater, although she was not long in discovering that an element of snobbery was abroad at Hamilton which was totally against Hamilton traditions. Aided by four of her Sanford chums, who had entered Hamilton College with her, and a number of freshmen and upper class girls, of democratic mind, the energetic band had endeavored to combat the pernicious influence, exercised by a clique of moneyed girls, which was fast taking hold upon other students. The end of the college year had found their efforts successful, in a measure, and the way paved for better things.

In “Marjorie Dean, College Sophomore,” the further account of Marjorie’s eventful college days was set forth. Opposed, from her return to Hamilton College by certain girls residing in the same house with herself, who disliked her independence and fair-mindedness, Marjorie was later given signal proof of their enmity. How she and her chums fought them on their own ground and won a notable victory over them formed a narrative of pleasing interest and lively action.

Now that the Five Travelers, as the quintette of Sanford girls loved to call themselves, were once more settled in the country of college, their devoted friends had already planned to honor them. Leila and Vera, who invariably returned early to college, had encountered Phyllis on the campus on the day previous. Informing her of the Lookouts’ expected arrival on the next afternoon, Phyllis had planned the serenade and demanded Leila’s help. Leila had rashly promised to keep the arrivals at home that evening. She was now of the opinion that a promise was sometimes easier made than fulfilled.

“Since Vera has told you everything she can remember about her new roadster, I shall now do a little talking myself.” Leila was having the utmost difficulty in controlling her risibles. She dared not look at Vera; nor dared Vera look at her. “Ahem! When I was in Ireland,” she pompously announced, “I saw – ”

Came the welcome interruption for which she had been waiting. Clear and sweet under the windows of the room rose the strains of Tosti’s “Serenata.” A brief prelude and voices took it up, filling the evening air with harmony.

“Thank my stars! A-h-h!” Leila relaxed exaggeratedly in her chair, her Cheshire-cat smile predominating her features.

“You bad old rascal!” Marjorie paused long enough to shake Leila playfully by the shoulders. Then she hurried to one of the windows. Jerry, Muriel and Lucy had reached one. Ronny and Vera were at the other. Marjorie joined them. Leila made no move to rise. She preferred sitting where she was.

“Keep quiet,” Jerry had admonished at the first sounds. “If we start to talk to them, they’ll stop singing. Whoever they are, they certainly can sing.” Her companions of her mind, it was a silent and appreciative little audience that gathered at the open windows to listen to the serenaders.

There was no moon that night. It was impossible to see the faces of the carolers, nor, in the general harmony of melodious sound, was it possible to identify any one voice. An energetic clapping of hands, from other windows as well as those of Marjorie’s room, greeted the close of the “Serenata.” Then a high soprano voice, which the girls recognized as Robin Page’s, began that most beautiful of old songs, “How Fair Art Thou.” A violin throbbed a soft obligato.

The marked hush that hung over the Hall during the rendering of the song was most complimentary to the soloist. The serenaders were not out for glory, however. Hardly had the applause accorded Robin died out, when mandolins, guitar and violin took up the stately “Hymn to Hamilton.”

 
“First in wisdom, first in precept; teach us to revere
thy way:
 
 
Grant us mind to know thy purpose, keep us in
thy brightest ray.
Let our acts be shaped in honor; let our steps be
just and free:
Make us worthy of thy threshold, as we pledge our
faith to thee.”
 

Thus ran the first stanza, set to a sonorous air which the combined harmony of voices and musical instruments rendered doubly beautiful. It seemed to those honored by the serenaders that they had never before heard the fine old hymn so inspiringly sung. The whole three stanzas were given. The instant the hymn was ended the familiar melody “How Can I Leave Thee Dear?” followed.

“That means they are going to beat it,” called Jerry in low tones. “Let us head them off before they can get away and take them with us to Baretti’s. We’ll have to start now, if we expect to catch them. They’re beginning the second stanza. We’ll just give them a little surprise.”

With one accord the appreciative and mischievous audience left the windows and made a rush for the stairs. Headed by Jerry they exited quietly from the house and stole around its right-hand corner.

Absorbed in their own lyric efforts, the singers had reached the third sentimentally pathetic stanza:

 
“If but a bird were I, homeward to thee I’d fly;
Falcon nor hawk I’d fear, if thou wert near.
Shot by a hunter’s ball; would at thy feet I fall,
If but one ling’ring tear would dim thine eye.”
 

Ready to leave almost on the last line, they were not prepared for the merry crowd of girls who pounced suddenly upon them.

“How can you leave us, dears?” caroled Muriel Harding, as she caught firm hold of Robin Page. “You are not going to leave us. Don’t imagine it for a minute.”

CHAPTER II – UNDER THE SEPTEMBER STARS

“Captured by Sanfordites!” exclaimed Robin dramatically. “What fate is left to us now?” Despite her tragic utterance, she proceeded to a vigorous hand-shaking with Muriel.

“Now why couldn’t you have stayed upstairs like nice children and praised our modest efforts in your behalf instead of prancing down stairs to head us off?” inquired Phyllis in pretended disgust. “Not one of you has the proper idea of the romance which should attend a serenade. Of course, you didn’t know who was singing to you, and, of course, you just simply had to find out.”

“Don’t delude yourself with any such wild idea,” Jerry made haste to retort. “We knew Robin’s voice the minute she opened her mouth to sing ‘How Fair Art Thou.’ Now which one of us were you particularly referring to in that number? I took it straight to myself. Of course I may be a trifle presumptuous, Ahem!”

“Yes; ‘Ahem!’” mimicked Phyllis. “You are just the same good old, funny old scout, Jeremiah. Somebody please hold my violin while I embrace Jeremiah.”

“Hold it yourself,” laughed Portia. “We have fond welcomes of our own to hand around and need the use of our arms.”

Full of the happiness of the meeting the running treble of girlhood, mingled with ripples of gay, light laughter, was music in itself.

“The Moore Symphony Orchestra and Concert Company will have to be moving on,” Elaine reminded after fifteen minutes had winged away. “This is Phil’s organization but she seems to have forgotten all about it. We are supposed to serenade Barbara Severn, Isabel Keller and Miss Humphrey while the night is yet young. I can see where someone of the trio will have to be unserenaded this evening.”

“Couldn’t you serenade them tomorrow night?” coaxed Marjorie. “We had it all planned to go to Baretti’s before we hustled down to head you off. The instant I recognized Robin’s heavenly soprano I knew that the Silvertonites were under our windows. I guess the rest knew, too. We didn’t want to talk while you were singing.”

“Very polite in you, I am sure.” In the darkness Elaine essayed a profound bow. Result, her head came into smart contact with Blanche’s guitar.

“Steady there! I need my guitar for the next orchestral spasm.” Blanche swung the instrument under her arm out of harm’s way.

“I need my head, too,” giggled Elaine, ruefully rubbing that slightly injured member.

“Do serenade the others tomorrow night.” Ronny now added her plea. “How would you like to take us along with you, then? Not to sing, but just for company, you know. I never went out serenading, and I fully feel the need of excitement.”

“What you folks need is fresh peach ice cream and lots of it,” Jerry advised with crafty enthusiasm. “It’s to be had at Giuseppe Baretti’s.”

“I know of nothing more refreshing to tired soloists than fresh peach ice cream,” seconded Vera. “I leave it to my esteemed friend, Irish Leila, if I am not entirely correct in this.”

“You are. Now what is it that you are quite right about?” Leila had caught the last sentence and risen to the occasion.

“Such support,” murmured Vera, as a laugh arose.

“Is it not now?” Leila blandly commented. “Never worry. There is little I would not agree with you in, Midget. Be consoled with that handsome amend. As for you singers and wandering musicians, you had better come with us.

 
“We’ll feed you on fine white bread of the wheat
And the drip of honey gold:
We’ll give you pale clouds for a mantle sweet,
And a handful of stars to hold.”
 

Leila sang lightly the quaint words of an old Irish ditty.

“Can we resist such a prospect?” laughed Phyllis. “How about it, girls? Is it on with the serenade or on to Baretti’s?”

“Baretti’s it had better be, since we are invited there by such distinguished persons,” was Robin’s decision. “Leila, you are to teach me that song you were just humming. It is sweet!”

Her companions were nothing loath to abandon their project for the evening in order to hob-nob with their Wayland Hall friends. They came to this decision very summarily. Now fourteen strong, the company turned their steps toward their favorite restaurant.

They were nearing the cluster lights stationed at each side of the wide walk leading up to the entrance of the tea room, when Lucy Warner stopped short with: “Oh, girls; I know something that I think would be nice to do.”

“Speak up, respected Luciferous,” encouraged Vera. “You say so little it is a pleasure to listen to you. I wish I could say that of everyone I know,” she added significantly.

“Have you an idea of whom she may be talking about?” quizzed Leila, rolling her eyes at her companions.

“She certainly doesn’t mean us, even if she didn’t say ‘present company excepted.’” Muriel beamed at Leila with trustful innocence. “Go ahead, Luciferous Warniferous, noble Sanfordite, and tell us what’s on your mind.”

“I had no idea I was so greatly respected in this crowd. I never before saw signs of it. Much obliged. This is what I thought of.” Lucy came to the point with her usual celerity. “Why not serenade Signor Baretti? He is an Italian. The Italians all love music. I know he would like it. You girls sing and play so beautifully.”

“Of course he would.” Marjorie was the first to endorse Lucy’s proposal “This is really a fine time for it, too. It’s late enough in the evening so that there won’t be many persons in the restaurant.”

“It would delight his little, old Giuseppeship,” approved Blanche.

“No doubt about it,” Robin heartily concurred. “We ought to sing something from an Italian opera. That would please him most. The Latins don’t quite understand the beauty of our English and American songs.”

“We can sing the sextette from ‘Lucia,’” proposed Elaine. “It doesn’t matter about the words. We know the music. We have sung that together so many times we wouldn’t make a fizzle of it.”

“Yes, and there is the ‘Italian Song at Nightfall’ that Robin sings so wonderfully. We can help out on the last part of it.” Tucking her violin under her chin, Phyllis played a few bars of the selection she had named. “I can play it,” she nodded. “I never tried it on the fiddle before.”

“That’s two,” counted Robin. “For a third and last let’s give that pretty ‘Gondelier’s Love Song,’ by Nevin. It doesn’t matter about words to that, either. There aren’t any. People ought to learn to appreciate songs without words. Giuseppe won’t care a hang about anything but the music. If any of you Wayland Hallites decide to sing with us, sing nicely. Don’t you dare make the tiniest discord.”

“She has some opinion of herself as a singer,” Leila told the others, with comically raised brows. “Be easy. We have no wish to lilt wid yez.”

Having decided to serenade the unsuspecting proprietor of the tea room, the next point to be settled was where they should stand to sing.

“Wait a minute. I’ll go and look in one of the windows,” volunteered Ronny. “Perhaps I shall be able to see just where he is.”

“He is usually at his desk about this time in the evening. We’ll gather around the window nearest where he is sitting,” planned Phyllis.

Ronny flitted lightly ahead of her companions, stopping at a window on the right-hand side, well to the rear. The others followed her more slowly in order to give her time to make the observation. Before they reached her she turned from her post and came quickly to them.

“He is back at the last table on the left reading a newspaper. There isn’t a soul in the room but himself,” she said in an undertone. “The time couldn’t be more opportune.”

“Oh, fine,” whispered Robin. “We can go around behind the inn and be right at the window nearest him.”

“The non-singers, I suppose we might call ourselves the trailers, will politely station our magnificent selves at the next window above the singers to see how the victim takes it,” decided Jerry. “Contrary, ‘no.’ I don’t hear any opposing voices.”

“There mustn’t be any voices heard for the next two minutes,” warned Portia Graham. “Slide around the inn and take your places as quietly as mice.”

In gleeful silence the girls divided into two groups, each group taking up its separate station.

“I hope the night air hasn’t played havoc with my strings,” breathed Phyllis. “I don’t dare try them. Are we ready?” She rapped softly on the face of her violin with the bow.

Followed the tense instant that always precedes the performance of an orchestra, then Phyllis and Robin began the world-known sextette from “Lucia.” Robin had sung it so many times in private to the accompaniment of her cousin’s violin that the attack was perfect. The others took it up immediately, filling the night with echoing sweetness.

From their position at the next window the watchers saw the dark, solemn face of the Italian raised in bewildered amazement from his paper. Not quite comprehending at first the unbidden flood of music which met his ears, he listened for a moment in patent stupefaction. Soon a smile began to play about his tight little mouth. It widened into a grin of positive pleasure. Giuseppe understood that a great honor was being done him. He was not only being serenaded, but he was listening to the music of his native country as well.

His varying facial expressions, as the sextette rose and fell, showed his love of the selection. As it ended, he did an odd thing. He rose from his chair, bowed his profound thanks toward the window from whence came the singing, and sat down again, looking expectant.

“He knows very well he’s being watched,” whispered Marjorie. “Doesn’t he look pleased? I’m so glad you thought of him, Lucy.”

Lucy was also showing shy satisfaction at the success of her proposal. She was secretly more proud of some small triumph of the kind on her part than of her brilliancy as a student.

Had Signor Baretti been attending a performance of grand opera, he could not have shown a more evident pleasure in the programme. He listened to the entertainment so unexpectedly provided him with the rapt air of a true music-lover.

“There!” softly exclaimed Phyllis, as she lowered her violin. “That’s the end of the programme, Signor Baretti. Now for that fresh peach ice cream. I shall have coffee and mountain cake with it. I am as hungry as the average wandering minstrel.”

“Let’s walk in as calmly as though we had never thought of serenading Giuseppe,” said Robin. “Oh, we can’t. I forgot. The orchestra part of this aggregation is a dead give-away.”

“We don’t care. He will know it was we who were out there. There is no one else about but us. I hope he won’t think we are a set of little Tommy Tuckers singing for our suppers. That’s a horrible afterthought on my part,” Elaine laughed.

“Come on.” Jerry and her group had now joined the singers. “He saw us but not until you were singing that Nevin selection. He kept staring at the window where the sound came from. We had our faces right close to our window and all of a sudden he looked straight at us. You should have seen him laugh. His whole face broke into funny little smiles.”

“He may have thought we were the warblers,” suggested Muriel hopefully. “We can parade into the inn on your glory. If I put on airs he may take me for the high soprano.” She glanced teasingly at Robin.

“Oh, go as far as you like. It won’t be the first instance in the world’s history where some have done all the work and others have taken all the credit,” Robin reminded.

In this jesting frame of mind the entire party strolled around to the inn’s main entrance. At the door they found Giuseppe waiting for them, his dark features wreathed in smiles.

“I wait for you here,” he announced, with an eloquent gesture of the hand. “So I know som’ my friendly young ladies from the college sing just for me. You come in. You are my com’ny. You say what you like. I give the best. Not since I come this country I hear the singing I like so much. The Lucia! Ah, that is the one I lov’!

“I tell you the little story while you stan’ here. Then you come in. When I come this country, I am the very poor boy. Come in the steerage. No much to eat. I fin’ work. Then the times hard, I lose work. All over New York I walk, but don’t fin’. I have no one cent. I am put from the bed I rent. I can no pay. For four days I have the nothing eat. I say, ‘It is over.’ I am this, that I will walk to the river in the night an’ be no more.

“It is the very warm night and I am tired. I walk an’ walk.” His face took on a shade of his by-gone hopelessness as he continued. “Soon I come the river, I think. Then I hear the music. It is in the next street jus’ I go turn into. It is the harp an’ violin. Two my countrymen play the Lucia. I am so sad. I sit on a step an’ cry. Pretty soon one these ask the money gif’ for the music. He touch me on shoulder, say very kind in Italian, ‘Che c’è mai?’ That mean, ‘What the matter?’ He see I am the Italiano. We look each other. Both cry, then embrac’. He is my oldes’ brother. He come here long before me. My mother an’ I, we don’t hear five years. Then my mother die. Two my brothers work in the vigna for the rich vignaiuolo in my country. My father is dead long time. So I come here.

“My brother give me the eat, the clothes, the place sleep. He have good room. He work in the day for rich Italian importer. Sometimes he go out play at night for help his friend who play the harp. He is the old man an’ don’t work all the time. So it is I lov’ the Lucia. They don’t play that, mebbe I don’t sit on that step. Then never fin’ my brother. An’ you have please me more than for many years you play the Lucia for me this night.”