“But the beauty of it was,” she continued, after meditating a moment over the Queen's answer, “that little Isabel was really a darling, and that the King called her 'his dear little sister,' and really loved her; because sometimes kings and queens do not love each other at all.”
“And sometimes they do and Her Majesty spoke so seriously, and with such a depth of earnestness, that Marie-Celeste, and Albert too, for that matter, looked up at her in wondering silence.
“But go on with the story, dear,” the Queen added; “we shall make but slow progress if we allow too many interruptions.”
“Well, it wasn't a bit strange that the King loved her, for even the King's men who were sent to bring her to England thought she was perfectly lovely, and indeed she was a most unusual little girl. They say that her father was very foolish, but good, and that her mother was wicked, but clever, and that the little Isabel was like her father for goodness and her mother for cleverness. And they say, too, that she was never twice alike; that sometimes she was grave and sedate as could be, and sometimes she was full of fun and frolic, but always so sweet and good and innocent that she was like a bright little star in those dark times, for there was war between England and France, and they say only the children can be light-hearted in war time.”
“Have you any idea, Marie-Celeste, how this little Isabel looked?” asked the Queen, keeping the little jewelled case close covered in her hand.
“Oh, yes; I think I know exactly. She was fair, but her eyes were black, with dark lashes curling over them, for her grandmother was an Italian, you know; and her head was put on her shoulders in a pretty sort of way, and she had a cunning, sweet look on her face that just made people love her.”
“Would you like to see her picture?” and the Queen, attempting to open the case she held in her hand, both the children were instantly bending over it.
“Se looks jus' as Marie-Celeste said,” remarked Albert proudly, his sceptical spirit of the morning wholly transformed into one of profound admiration; and Marie-Celeste, asking that she might hold the case in her own hand, and gazing entranced upon the dear little face looking out at her, said joyfully, “Yes, she does look as I said, doesn't she?” Then she reverently laid the miniature back upon the Queen's lap, as though counting it quite too precious to be long out of royal keeping. “It seems to me now I can just see,” she said, gazing fondly down at the picture where it lay, “the way she looked that day when the King's men went to bring her to England. One of them dropped on one knee and said, 'Madame, if God pleases, you shall be our Queen and lady;' and then she made a little courtesy like this, and answered without a word from anybody, 'Sir, if it please God and my lord and father, I shall be most happy, for I am told the Queen of England is a very great lady.'”
Nothing could have been prettier than the wholly unconscious way in which Marie-Celeste impersonated the grandeur and dignity of the little Isabel, courtesy and all; so that the Queen said admiringly, “My dear, you are a real little queen yourself, and your kingdom must lie in the hearts of all who know you;” and Albert, anxious at once to acquit himself as most loyal of her subjects, shook his head emphatically and remarked, “Marie-Celeste is a daisy, and she ought to live in a castle jus' as fine as anybody;” and then, to prove the wealth of his devotion, he threw his two arms around her waist, which was as high as he could reach, in most uncourtly fashion.
“Hush, Albert,” said Marie-Celeste, blushingly pushing him from her, for this demonstration was as embarrassing as unexpected; “please go and sit down by Miss Belmore, for we are not half through, are we?” looking toward the Queen for confirmation of the fact.
“Why, no indeed! Little Isabel isn't even married yet, Albert;” and Albert climbed back, just as he had intended to do, to his seat beside Miss Belmore, but with the most supercilious smile on his little face, as though he, to whom story-telling was the most delightful thing in the world, did not know whether a story was finished or not. But no matter, he did not mind being misunderstood, even by the Queen's mother, if Marie-Celeste would only go on; and Marie-Celeste, as eager to talk as her listeners to hear, went on.
“And so it came about that they took the little Isabel to England, and Madame de Coucy, a lady whom Isabel dearly loved, came with her to be her governess; and next to Madame de Coucy, Isabel loved Simonette. Simonette was a poor little slave brought to France from one of the crusades, and I suppose they grew more fond of each other every day, because when they came to England both were so far away from their old home. On the way to England Richard came to meet the little Isabel at Calais, in France, and then she was escorted to London in fine style, and after that all her queen's fixings were taken off and she was brought here to this very Castle, that was to be her home, and everybody called her Madame La Petite Reine.” Albert would have given a good deal to know what those French words meant, and wished he had not made such a row when his mother had once suggested a French bonne; but he would not betray his ignorance for anything, and Marie-Celeste was allowed to proceed uninterrupted.
“And here in this dear old Castle La Petite Reine had a beautiful time. She used to study with Madame de Coucy in the mornings and go for walks among the flowers out in the garden there in the afternoon, and way beyond it too sometimes, and Richard would often come down from London for a visit, and he taught her English courtly ways and to play the mandolin” (Albert looked significantly toward the quaint mandolin, with a faded blue ribbon attached to it, that was lying among the other treasures on the table); “and when the King could not come for a regular visit, he would just ride down for a word and kiss. And so the time went by, and sometimes Isabel would go to hear the canons preach in St. George's, and sometimes she would watch the knights riding in the tilt-yard from one of the Castle windows; only sometimes, when one knight hurt another with his spear or tumbled him from his horse, so that he was carried away stunned and bleeding, she saw more than she wanted to see, and would not go near those windows again for days. And then at last there came a sad time for Isabel, for the King had decided he must go himself and take charge of his army, which was trying to put down an insurrection in Ireland. But before he rode away from Windsor Castle, he said he would have a great tournament in the tilt-yard in honor of St. George, and he had a beautiful green uniform made, and he was to carry the Queen's device of a little white falcon, and Isabel and her maids were to be present and give the crown to whichever knight should be victorious. But very few came to the tournament, for there were very few who really cared for the King, and it was all a failure, and the Castle seemed a very sad place for La Petite Reine, because the King was going away.”
“And now,” said Albert, appealing to the Queen, for he felt that quite too much was being taken for granted, “will you please tell me what is a tilt-yard? and what it was dat de knignts would not tome to? and what was dat little white ting of the Queen's dat de King carried?” and impatiently as Marie-Celeste brooked the interruption, there was nothing for it but to wait while Her Majesty explained that the tilt-yard was a sort of riding-school for the knights, where they practised for the tournaments, and that the tournaments were occasions when the knights, spear in hand, came together to ride against each other, with a great many people looking on, and when the one who unseated all those who rode against him won the prize. As for the little white thing of Isabel's, that was a falcon—that is, a pretty live white bird, which was Isabel's device or emblem; and when the King carried that he showed how he delighted to honor his own little child-queen.
“I would be glad if you would go on and tell the rest,” said Marie-Celeste; “all that happened afterward was so doleful I do not like to tell it.”
“Well, let me think,” said her Majesty. “I doubt if I can get all that followed quite straight and then there was silence for a few moments.
“Will somebody please go on,” remarked Albert, when he thought there had been quite enough time for thinking. The shadows were lengthening out there in the garden, and oh if they should have to go home before the story was done!
And then “somebody”—that is, the Queen—(who, as you know, was a good deal more of a somebody than Albert gave her credit for)—endeavored at once to allay the little fellow's impatience.
“I remember,” she said, “how sad was the parting between the King and the little Queen! How he walked with her, hand in hand, from the Castle into the lower ward, at the head of a long procession of loyal servants, and then into St. George's Chapel for a farewell service, and how they kneeled down before the altar, side by side, while the choir sang very sweetly. And then how he lifted the little Queen in his arms, for to him she was just a darling little sister, and kissed her over and over again, while she sobbed and sobbed, and begged him not to leave her all alone. After that he led her into the deanery—those are rooms set aside for different uses in connection with the chapel—and there he gave her a royal box of candies, and sat down and ate some with her, and tried to joke with her, and sipped a little wine, and then another long farewell, and he was gone, never to see the little Queen again.”
“Which died?” asked Albert, in a hoarse whisper.
“Oh, neither of them died, dear; only as soon as Richard returned from Ireland he was taken prisoner by the English nobles and compelled to resign his crown, and so was never able to come back to claim his Castle or his little bride. But for all that Richard fared no worse than he deserved, for though he was kind and good to little Isabel, he was false and cruel to almost every one beside. Indeed, he was false to little Isabel too, for while he was still at Windsor he gave orders to have Madame de Coucy, whom Isabel loved as her own mother, dismissed and sent back to France soon after he should have gone, and he was not honest enough to tell little Isabel of the plan. But, as the old chronicles say, 'Madame de Coucy was a woman of spirit,' and when the time came refused to go. 'Holding her office from the King of France, she owned no master but the King of France;' and although driven from the Castle, she remained at Windsor, and succeeded in keeping up some connection with the little Queen. And now the misfortunes of the poor little Isabel followed thick and fast. The partings from Richard and her governess Madame de Coucy, had thrown the child into a fever, and Richard's uncle, the Duke of York, in whose care she had been left, was at his wit's ends to know what to do. Meantime, Henry Bolingbroke, a nephew of Richard's, and a brave prince, had landed in England, and the people, who loved him, were ready to receive him and make him King in Richard's place. And now the Duke of York, fearing that Windsor was no longer a safe place for the little Queen, moved her to a castle called Wallingford, which had been built only for defence, and was stronger than Windsor. But it was all to no purpose. Everything gave way before the march of Henry Bolingbroke and his army. Windsor surrendered to a blast of trumpets, and a few days later the little Queen was yielded up a captive into Henry's hands, and was carried with faithful Simonette, her Saracen maid, to the Castle of Ledes; but Ledes, fortunately, proved to be a beautiful castle, with a large garden, and she was not treated harshly or unkindly. Madame de Coucy, meanwhile, started for France posthaste, and was the first to carry the news to the court of Charles that Madame Isabel had been captured and dethroned, and then you may be sure all France was up in arms, as they say, in a moment, threatening to avenge La Petite Reine. But, notwithstanding the threats of the French, nothing could be done at once to release the little Queen, and so it was a comfort to know that all this while Henry was caring for her welfare most kindly.”
At this point in the story the Queen, fearing that the long page from history might prove wearying to even so eager a little listener as Albert, suggested to Miss Belmore to bring some of the treasures from the table that they might have a closer look at them.
“And was this her very own?” asked Marie-Celeste, handling the mandolin with reverent touch—“the very one on which Richard taught her to play?”
“Yes,” said Miss Belmore; “and this pretty dress”—holding up the little short-waisted gown of lace and satin—“was the one she wore that day Richard took his last leave of her in the deanery of St. George's Chapel.”
“Only to think,” Marie-Celeste said solemnly, “that I should hold in my own hands things that belonged to the little Isabel! Mr. Belden never guessed when he told me all about her on the steamer such a wonder would come to pass. I wish he could know about it some day.”
“But who has kept all dese old tings so long, and how old are dey anyway?” asked more practical Albert, inspecting with curious, critical gaze a little necklace of hammered gold and silver which Miss Belmore had dropped into his lap as one of the few treasures his rather inquisitive touch would not damage.
“The keepers of the wardrobe, one after another, have cared for them carefully, Albert, for nearly five hundred years,” Miss Belmore explained; “and it is only by a special order from the Queen that they can ever be taken out of the precious chest where they are stored for a single moment, except twice a year or so, to be cleaned and brushed.”
“And did the Oueen give a special order for us to-day?” asked Marie-Celeste, more impressed than ever with the greatness of their privileges.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Well, de Queen's a daisy too, den,” ventured Albert, who, alas! was no respecter of persons.
“Hush, Albert,” said Marie-Celeste, blushing, but very thankful that Miss Belmore and the Queen's mother seemed more amused than shocked; and then she added, amid deeper blushes, “Oh, will you please tell Her Majesty for me that I never could thank her enough, never?”
“Well, what happened to her next?” asked Albert, for there was no telling when the story would ever go on again, if Marie-Celeste was allowed to indulge too freely in these sentimental flights of hers.
Her Majesty waited a moment, hoping Marie-Celeste would take up the thread of the story, which she did almost unconsciously.
“Oh, she had a dreadful time, Albert. Richard left her in the care of a man named Huntington, and I don't believe there ever was a man so bad as he. Why, when Henry Bolingbroke was made king he had pardoned this Huntington, though he had been as untrue to Henry as he could be, because he was his sister's husband. But no sooner was he pardoned than he laid a deep plot with some other men as wicked as himself to overpower the King. As part of the plan, they were going to surprise Windsor Castle; and Huntington, if you will believe it, hoped to murder the four sons of Henry with his own hand; and they did march on Windsor Castle, but not before Henry and his sons had heard of the dreadful plan and ridden safely away. But Huntington could not believe that they had gone, and they searched everywhere in the castle here for them, and he was so angry at not finding them, that he let his soldiers in and they stove in doors and tore down curtains and cut up furniture and carried off silver, so that in five hours the castle was ruined.”
“Is that true?” whispered Albert to Miss Belmore. It seemed so incredible that Windsor Castle, with its present state and grandeur, could ever have been in such a sorry plight.
“Only too true, dear. There would be many more priceless treasures in the castle to-day but for the untold mischief of that terrible morning.”
Marie-Celeste waited with a decidedly martyr-like air till this inexcusable whispering was through with, chiming in again at the first opportunity. “And then what did the wretch do but hurry to little Isabel, and tell her that he had freed Richard from the Tower, and that he would soon be kins: again; so that Isabel was glad to go with Huntington. But it was all a lie, for Huntington simply wanted to have Isabel for his own prisoner instead of Henry Bolingbroke's. And so the poor little thing was right in Huntington's camp, among his rough soldiers; and what was worse, as soon as Huntington found himself in a tight place, and had to fly for his life, he deserted her, and Henry Bolingbroke's men came and carried her up to London, and then she was Henry's prisoner once more. But Huntington got what he deserved at last” (and the smile of grim satisfaction with which Marie-Celeste adorned the statement showed how simply enormous to even her childish mind seemed the crimes of the fiendish Huntington), “for after he deserted Isabel he fell into the hands of some peasants, who knew what a wretch he was, and who took him and drove a chopper through his neck, and so made an end of him. And then what did King Henry do but decide that it would be a good thing for England to keep friends with France, if that were possible; and so he said, 'The Pope shall say Isabel is no longer the wife of Richard, and I will marry her to my son Harry.' Of course everybody thought that would suit little Isabel well enough, for Harry was tall and handsome, just Isabel's age, and would make a line man some day; but Isabel would not hear of such a thing. She still loved the weak, bad man, older than her own father, who had fed her on sugar-plums, called her his little sister, fingered her mandolin, and sung with her at morning mass. Then besides her own feeling, the French themselves did not seem to want to be friendly with England, or to have Isabel stay here; and so at last she was sent back to her own people, and she died at Blois in France, when she was only twenty years old.”
“And—and now I think dat's a very sad an' interestin' story and Albeit, pondering over the remarkable tale, shook his head gravely from side to side.
“And the saddest part,” said Her Majesty, “is that there would probably have been no Joan of Arc nor Agincourt nor siege of Rouen if only the little Isabel had chanced to fancy the little Prince Hal.”
Agincourt and the siege of Rouen were only names to the children's ears. But there was time for no more questions; the flower garden was almost all in shadow now, and besides it had occurred even to Albert that the “old lady” might be growing a little tired.
“We have had a beautiful time,” said Marie-Celeste, with a sigh, as though unable to give full expression to her appreciation; “but I hope we haven't stayed too long;” and then, as though reluctant to take final leave of the little Isabel, she added: “Don't you think it is more comfortable just to be one of the people, and be a regular little girl, and grow up always near your mother, like other children?”
“Yes; there must be some nice things about belonging to the people,” Her Majesty replied, smiling; “but then, you know that poor little Isabel's history was very unusual, and that many little princes and princesses have grown up near their mothers, as you and Albert have, and have been just regular little children for ever so many years.”
“Dat's good,” said Albert, apparently immensely relieved to have his fears as to the general fate of princes and princesses removed.
Meantime, Miss Belmore had brought their hats, and after a most friendly parting with their kindly hostess and her lady-in-waiting, the children were conducted to another doorway from the one by which they had entered. There one of the court carriages, with a gallant outrider, stood in waiting, and the footman, after receiving directions as to the whereabouts of the Little Castle, sprang to his place, and they were off.
“To think, Albert,” said Marie-Celeste, turning on Albert the moment the door was closed, and seizing his little wrist by way of emphasis, “we are in one of the Queen's own carriages, and we've been spending the day—spending the day, Albert, in Windsor Castle.”
“Nes,” said Albert complacently; “we must do aden.”
There was time for scarcely more than this before the carriage wheeled up at Canon Allyn's, and Albert was safely landed at his own door, and another three minutes brought it to the Little Castle.
Harold, conjecturing that the children might be sent home in this courtly fashion, was on hand on the steps to receive the favored recipients of royal hospitality.
“I suppose you feel too high and mighty to speak to a fellow,” he said. “I don't believe you'll ever get over it, Marie-Celeste.”
“Well, we have had a magnificent day”—allowing herself to be detained for a moment, notwithstanding her eagerness to rush straight to the bosom of her family—“we spent the whole afternoon with the Oueen's mother.”
“The Oueen's mother! Marie-Celeste, she's been dead ever so many years.”
“Who was she, then?” almost angrily; “she was an old lady.”
“The Queen herself, of course.”
“The Oueen an old lady?”
“Why not? She has a host of grandchildren.”
“But she wore no crown, Harold.”
“Oh, you goosey, of course not! She does not put her crown on once in an age. Who told you she was the Queen's mother?”
“Only Albert, Harold;” and then realizing at a bound Albert's positive genius for jumping to wrong conclusions, Marie-Celeste leaned against the door from very weakness.
“Marie-Celeste,” said Harold, who, like other boys, was rather inclined to rub a thing in, “it's the very best joke I have heard in all my life.”
“You are very unkind, Harold,” answered Marie-Celeste accusingly. “It is the most mortifying thing that ever happened, if she really was the Queen,” and then, trying to gather a little new courage, she added, “but I am not going to believe it till I have to. There must be a mistake somewhere. The lady we saw is not one bit like the pictures or the statues,” and yet all the time Marie-Celeste felt that she was clinging to a forlorn hope. During their stay at the castle there had been an occasional exchange of glances between their royal hostess and Miss Belmore and a frequent amused look in their eyes, which she had been at a loss to account for; but this would explain it all. Ah, yes! she knew almost to a certainty that their long talk about Petite Reine of other days had been with none other than La Grande Reine of to-day, and the crimes of the dreadful Huntington seemed hardly worse, for the moment, than that of that most audacious Albert!
CHAPTER XV.—A DARING SUGGESTION.
It was a close foggy morning in London, and Mr. Everett Belden, having breakfasted a whole hour earlier than usual, stood gazing out upon the street from one of the windows of the Reform Club. It is two months now since we let him go his lonely way from the steamer; and this may surprise you, for what with the doings up at Windsor and the complications in the cottage at Nuneham, you may not have kept any track of the time. None the less is it true that in all this while we have not given so much as a thought to Mr. Belden or to aught that concerns him; and for all I know it is just as well. The little “buttons” who keeps guard during the day at the door of the Reform Club and the smartly liveried Irishman who takes his place at night would both tell you that Mr. Belden has come in and out all the while with great regularity, having his saddle horse brought around at precisely the same hour every clear morning, and going out for a walk at precisely the same hour every afternoon. There is no evidence that in all these weeks he has been of the least real use to anybody, or that, notwithstanding his recent encounter with a little girl who had set him thinking rather seriously for a time, he had in any way altered or modified his selfish way of living. They are creatures of habit these self-centred old bachelors, and it takes a great deal to start them out along any new line of action, and doubly so when, like Mr. Belden, they do not know what it is to feel buoyantly well and strong. And so to all outward appearances there was no change whatever in this particular old bachelor, and the little sermon Marie-Celeste had unconsciously preached on the steamer and the reading of the “Story of a Short Life” had only given him a glimpse of what a noble thing life might be, without awakening any real determination to make his own life noble. But outward appearances, as often happens, are not by any means the infallible things the world would have us believe, and deep down in Mr. Belden's heart had dropped a little seed of unrest that made itself felt that sultry August morning; not but that his heart was all unrest for that matter, for there is no restlessness in the world like the restlessness of doing nothing; but this little seed was of a new and different character, and with such power of growth in it that, tiny though it was, it finally compelled Mr. Belden to take it into account.
“How queer it is,” he said to himself, “that I should feel constrained in this way to run out to Windsor! Land knows! I have no desire to come to be on intimate terms of acquaintance with Evelyn's boys; and what would be the satisfaction of prowling around just to see where they live? Their father gave me up after that time he spoke his mind so freely about my aimless life—as he was pleased to call it—and there is no reason whatever why I should bother myself about my sister's children, since she, poor thing! is dead and gone, and they have enough of this world's goods to make them comfortable. But I would give—yes, I would give a great deal for another glimpse of that child Marie-Celeste—for another talk with her, too, before she goes sailing back to the States, if only that were possible without my coming in contact with any of the rest of the household. Well, there seems to be nothing for it but to go to Windsor to-day, for it looks as though I should not get the best of this state of mind till I do.” Then he turned from the window, put on his coat, which was lying in readiness beside him, strolled out from the club, called for a hansom, directing the driver to take him to the station, and never for one minute admitted to himself that he had risen a whole hour earlier in order to do this very thing, or that he was acting on any stronger impulse than that of a passing fancy, born of the midsummer day, and desire for a little variety. So, out to Windsor he went, and choosing from among the carriages at the depot one that was manned by a respectable-looking old party, took his place on the front seat beside him, remarking that he had simply come down to see the town, and would first like to drive about for an hour.
The driver, judging from Mr. Belden's faultless attire and distinguished bearing, had rated him at once as one of those high and mighty Londoners, and had expected that he would of course entrench himself on the back seat of the little turnout and, preserving a dignified silence, condescendingly allow himself to be driven about and to be very much bored into the bargain—all of which, it must be confessed, would have been more in keeping with Mr. Belden's usual manner of conducting himself. To-day, however, he had an axe to grind, and the friendly intercourse of the front seat would prove more conducive to the end in view.
“Ever been ere before?” questioned the coachman, ready to prove himself friendly with the friendly.
“I was at Eton half a term when a boy, but I didn't take to the old place, and cut and run away the first chance.”
“And 'aven't you 'ad any schoolin' since, sir?”
“Oh, yes; I tutored awhile at home—just enough to wriggle my way into Cambridge; and I studied just enough there to get my degree—no more, I can tell you. I have been one of those fellows who didn't believe in taking unnecessary trouble.”
“You look it,” said the man honestly.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Belden, thinking he was willing to face the music.
“Well, you 'ave a lazy, listless sort of look—begging your pardon, sir—like most of those men who loaf their lives away at the clubs up in London.”
Mr. Belden naturally felt irritated at the fellow's blunt honesty, but there was no sense in resenting a state of affairs which he had deliberately brought down upon himself.
“You look the perfect gentleman, all the same,” added the man; and endeavoring to extract a grain of comfort from this last remark, Mr. Belden thought best to change the subject.
“Do you happen to know,” he asked quite casually, “of any people here in Windsor named Harris?”
“Oh, yes, sir; there are two young gentlemen named 'Arris, whose mother died two years back, living in the Little Castle. Do you know them, sir?”
“I know of them.”
“Would you like to call there, sir?”
“No; I'd rather like to see the house, though.”
“It's a 'alf a mile back, sir, near the big Castle. We can take it in on our way 'ome.”
“No; turn round; if it's all the same to you we'll go there now;” and this last a little gruffly; for one has to be a good deal of a philosopher to continue on the friendliest of terms with a man that has just informed you that you look listless and lazy.
The driver was rather surprised at Mr. Belden's changed mood, but the little carriage was turned round promptly in obedience to orders, and the old horse whipped into a canter.
“Don't do that,” said Mr. Belden sharply; “there's no need to hurry and the horse was instantly jerked down to a pace more in accordance with his own ideas of comfort and propriety.
“Tell me what you know about these Harris boys,” said Mr. Belden imperiously.
“I'm not in the way to know much, sir”—preferring to be civil at any cost than to lose the probable extra shilling “the young un is an Eton boy, and the older one studies up to Hoxford. The old un's a tough un, they say, but he seems a decent enough sort of fellow.”
“Does the young one live alone here at Windsor?”
“Don't know about that, sir; but I've 'eard they 'ave some company from the States this summer. That's the house yonder, with the pretty terrace and the tower. They calls it the Little Castle.”
Mr. Belden looked in the direction indicated, and—could he believe his eyes!—was there not a familiar little figure coming leisurely down the path from the Little Castle, which when it reached the gate in the hedgerow turned in the same direction as they were driving?
“Whip up,” ordered Mr. Belden impatiently, for he wanted to be a little more sure in the matter. Yes, it was certainly Marie-Celeste. There was no mistaking the free, quick step nor the alert bearing.
“Stop!” commanded Mr. Belden, and the carriage came to a standstill with paralyzing abruptness “Now, turn your wheel and let me out. There's your money.”
Instantly perceiving that he had been generously compensated, the man smiled an appreciative “Thank you,” and then watched Mr. Belden stride up the street, with the conclusion that he was “a little off;” but the more “off” the better, he thought, if it meant three half-crowns for a drive of a quarter of an hour.
Marie-Celeste walked briskly on up the hill, and Mr. Belden would have given three half-crowns more with a will to any one who could have told him where she was going. He would prefer to come across her more by accident apparently than by running to catch up with her, and when so near, too, to the Little Castle as to suggest that he had probably come to Windsor purposely to see her. If she should happen to turn in at some house, he decided he would try to intercept her before she rang the bell, so that they might have at least a few moments' chat, but otherwise he would bide his time a little while and see what came of it. She had a sort of portfolio under her arm; it was not unlikely she was going to some lesson or other, and if so, alas! where would the chat come in? But, as you and I happen to know, nothing was farther from Marie-Celeste's thought that happy summer, withal she was learning so much, than any idea of lessons, and on she went till she vanished from sight through one of the castle gates. Then Mr. Belden quickened his steps, and arrived at the inner side of the same gate just in time to see her disappear within St. George's Chapel.
“Which way did that little girl go?” he asked of the sexton, who was vigorously burnishing a brass memorial tablet just within the doorway of the chapel.
“Do you mean Marie-Celeste, sir?”
“Yes;” but naturally wondering that the man should know her name.
“You are likely to find her right in there, sir,” indicating the direction by a nod of his head. “She was coming in some day to copy off part of the inscription from the Prince Imperial's tomb.”
So this old sexton and Marie-Celeste were evidently on the best of terms, and the child, with her genius for making friends, was probably in the confidence of half of Windsor by this time; and Mr. Belden selfishly wished she would not be so indiscriminate in her friendships.
The “right in there” of the sexton evidently referred to Braye Chapel, within a few feet of the door by which he had entered; and glancing in through the open-work carving of the partition enclosing it, he discovered Marie-Celeste seated on a cushion on the floor, her back against the wall, busily writing away on the portfolio on her lap.
Mr. Belden moved noiselessly to the doorway, and stood unobserved, looking down upon her for several seconds, until glancing up for the next sentence in the inscription, she suddenly beheld him.
“Why, Mr. Belden!” she cried, transfixed with surprise; “how long have you been there, and wherever did you come from?”
“I have been here about a minute, I should say, and I ran out from London this morning to take a look at old Windsor, and, you see, I have had the good fortune, as I half hoped I should, to run across my little steamer friend.”
“But you wouldn't have come down to Windsor without coming to see me, Mr. Belden?” and Marie-Celeste, suddenly realizing that her position was not the most dignified in the world, shut the portfolio together and stood up to receive him in more courteous fashion.
“Well, to be quite honest, Marie-Celeste,” for the half-truths of conventional acquaintance did not enter into this friendship, “I think I might; I'm nothing of a hand at calling, you know, but I'm awfully glad, I can tell you, to have met you just in this way, only you mustn't let me interrupt you. You keep right on with your copying, and I'll wander about till you've finished.”
“Oh, I had so much rather show you the chapel,” Marie-Celeste said eagerly. “I can finish the copying any time, and I know about it almost as well as the vergers themselves—will you let me?” evidently afraid that he would express a preference for a professional guide.
“Well, I can't imagine anything more delightful;” for which cordial endorsement Marie-Celeste blushed her thanks.
“Well,” she said, very much impressed with the dignity of the opportunity afforded her, “suppose we commence right here with this monument to the Prince Imperial. Of course you will have to let me tell you which are my favorites, and this is one of them. Somehow it seems to me the very saddest monument in all the chapel; but I think it was beautiful in Queen Victoria to have it placed here out of sympathy for the poor French Empress, who had lost everything—husband and kingdom, and, last of all, this brave son; for I think he must have been brave, don't you, Mr. Belden? The same sort of bravery that Leonard—you remember the 'Story of a Short Life,' don't you?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Well, I mean the same sort of bravery that Leonard would have shown if he had lived to grow up, as he so longed to do, to be a soldier like the Prince. And yet Leonard was just as brave in his own way, wasn't he? It was the prayer that the Prince wrote in his mass-book that I was copying; it is very beautiful, isn't it?”
There was no need for Mr. Belden to do aught but look and listen, and drop a word of assent now and then, when Marie-Celeste saw fit to impart her information in a somewhat interrogative form; and in this way they went on from monument to monument, giving of course but a passing glance to many and stopping longest, by tacit agreement, at those which had some special charm or attraction for Marie-Celeste.
“This is one of my greatest favorites,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, as they came to the late Dean Wellesley's monument, in the north aisle; and she stood in rapt admiration looking down at the beautiful recumbent figure. “Isn't that a glorious face, Mr. Belden?” she said in an earnest, low voice; “and I love what it says about him here on the side—'Trained in a school of duty and honor'—because his face bears it out, Mr. Belden. It shows, I think, how noble he must have been through and through all his life long.”
“What a little hero-worshipper you are, Marie-Celeste,” said 'Mr. Belden, looking kindly and thoughtfully down at her glowing face.
“Well,” replied Marie-Celeste as thoughtfully, “I don't see how anybody can help being a hero-worshipper, and doing all they can to be heroes themselves.”
“Well, some people do, Marie-Celeste—I have helped it all my life somehow.”
“Yes; I remember you told me something like that on the steamer; but it's a great pity, and it seems to me—”
“What seems to you?” for Marie-Celeste hesitated.
“Are you sure you will not mind, for I only mean to be friendly?”
“Surely I will not mind.”
“Well, then, it seems to me I would try to be a hero at one great jump, to make up for all the lost time.”
“And how would you manage it, Marie-Celeste?”
“I believe I would begin to think out some beautiful thing to do with my money before I died.”
“There is a great deal in what you say, dear child,” Mr. Belden replied earnestly, “and I will think about it; and yet, do you know, I would not have let anybody else in the world make that suggestion to me;” but significant as this last remark was intended to be, Marie-Celeste, to Mr. Belden's surprise, paid little heed to it; for what difference did that make, so long as, without taking offence, he had allowed her to tell him what was for his own good?
“Isn't this a beautiful inscription?” she said, pausing for a moment before the monument of George V., the last king of Hanover. “They say he was blind, and that after his death his kingdom became just a part of Germany, and that is the reason they wrote here, 'Receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved,' and, 'In thy light shall he see light.'”
And so the tour of the chapel was at last made; and although his little guide had omitted much historical detail that the professional would have furnished, she had put in with telling force many little points of her own.
When they reached the doorway of the chapel, Mr. Belden stood watch in hand, for he had decided he would take the two-o'clock train back to London, while Marie-Celeste ran on telling how Donald had gone to stay with Chris at Nuneham, and various other matters about Ted and Harold that were of more interest to Mr. Belden than she had any idea of. Finally, in breathless, excited fashion, she told of the visit to the Queen she and Albert had made, and of how she had handled with her own hands treasures that had belonged to Madame La Petite Reine. Of course it seemed almost incredible, but then the “incredible” was coming to seem rather a part of Marie-Celeste's make-up in Mr. Belden's mind. At last, when he felt that he must not delay another moment, he took leave of her, saying as he went, “Well, as usual you have set me thinking, my little friend,” but as though he were grateful for the same; and Marie-Celeste, turning back to finish the copying of the Prince Imperial's prayer, wondered in her practical little way if anything would come of the thinking, and if so, if she would ever happen to hear what it was; and yet at the same time not a little sceptical as to any tangible result whatsoever.