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