But it was all fun. She didn't see how people, inclusive of certain near relatives of her own, could be willing to keep their state-rooms after seven o'clock on such a glorious morning. She only wished she had some one to enjoy it with her; and a few minutes later the wish came true, and in such delightfully surprising fashion. Just as she was nearing the break in the saloon deck that grants an open sky space to the steerage, she discovered some one coming toward her on the deck of the second-class cabin—some one who looked familiar, notwithstanding the absence of gray coat and brass buttons.
“Why, Chris Hartley!” she cried, and standing stock-still from sheer surprise. At the sound of the cheery voice, a lady, who was so fortunate as to have a deck state-room, and so unfortunate as to sorely need it, peered out and tried to smile a good-morning to the happy little stranger outside her window. Marie-Celeste smiled back again, but at the sight of the white face realized in a flash why some people keep their state-rooms at sea in the early morning. But of course there was only the merest little suggestion of a sympathetic thought to spend on the poor, white lady, with Chris Hartley but just discovered, and after that one instant of transfixed surprise she sped toward him, both hands extended; and over the gate that divides the first from the second cabin they indulged in the heartiest shaking of hands possible, while hats for the moment were expected to look out for themselves. Indeed, there is no telling how long the hand-shaking might have lasted but that the hats proved untrustworthy in the stiff northern wind that was blowing, Chris catching his on the fly and Marie-Celeste's saved almost as narrowly.
“Did you know we were on board, Chris?” were the first words that formed themselves into a sentence after the “Well, well, well!” of their first meeting.
“Of course I knew, and so I chose this steamer on purpose.”
“Who told you, Chris? You know I haven't seen you since the day you brought the English letter.”
“Bridget told me the next morning how that you had had a letter that was going to take you all to England, and then in a day or two I learned you were going on the Majestic, and I hurried right over to the office and secured the last berth they had left in the second cabin. But now I'm here I'm thinking I'll not see much of you, after all,” and Chris looked decidedly crestfallen.
“Why not, I should like to know?”
Chris glanced significantly at the gate between them.
“Oh!” beginning to understand; “don't they allow that to be opened?”
“No, they don't,” and Chris colored up a little in spite of himself; “but of course it's all right. I couldn't afford to travel first class, and I don't belong there anyway.”
“But you could easily get over that little gate,” said Marie-Celeste mischievously, and yet soberly too, for she foresaw what innumerable good times would be interfered with if Chris must stay in one place and she in another.
“No,” said Chris gravely, “that wouldn't do; but—”
“But what, Chris?”
“Oh, never mind! I guess we'll just have to have little talks right here when we can.”
“Well, I guess we won't just have to have anything of the sort,” making up her mind on the instant precisely what steps she would take. “I'll manage that; and now tell me, Chris, how you happen to be on this steamer at all. I thought you were going home this summer?”
“And where do you think home is?”
“Where?” far too eager to waste any time in mere thinking.
“In England, of course.”
“Why, then, I suppose you're English,” she said, with surprise and unconcealed disappointment.
“Why, then, I suppose I am,” Chris answered; “but really, I don't see why you should mind, Marie-Celeste.”
“Oh, I expected they would be different, the real English people—different from us. I had heard they were, and it isn't so interesting to have all the world alike.”
“Well, I wouldn't give up hope quite yet,” said Chris, very much amused; “you see, I'm not exactly real English, I've been in the States so long;” and when Marie-Celeste came to think of it, there was some comfort in that.
Meantime, a number of passengers had come on to the decks of both cabins, and a few moments later the little buglers appeared simultaneously on both sides of the saloon, and the call for breakfast rang out on the still sea air.
“There's something English for you,” said Chris.
“What do you mean?” with puzzled frown.
“Why, that's the English mess call,
'Officers' wives eat puddings and pies,
Soldiers' wives eat skilly'
—those are the words that go to it.”
“Why, so they do!” for the little buglers were obligingly repeating their strain, and Marie-Celeste discovered for herself that they fitted the notes exactly.
“What's 'skilly?'” she asked presently, as Chris expected she would.
“Well, it's a kind of stew that the soldiers' wives make. It's cheap and nourishing. We don't have anything just like it in America that I know of.”
“Well, you are English, after all, Chris,” with evident gratification; “there must be lots of more things you can tell me, and there's no end to the good times we'll have together; but I guess I'd better go now. I shouldn't wonder if mamma felt rather ill this rough morning—she isn't a very good sailor. Good-by, Chris; you'll come to the gate after breakfast?”
Chris promised, and watched the trim little figure till it disappeared; then he turned and paced the deck with a somewhat troubled look on his kind face. Somehow he had not given much thought to this subject of first and second class till on that first morning out, when he found the low iron gate imposing itself so resolutely between himself and his little friend; but then he realized at a bound how much there was in it. It might well happen that the father and mother, who were quite willing that their little daughter should have an occasional chat with the postman at home, would prefer not to recognize him in the role of a second-cabin passenger; and good Chris Hartley felt inclined to call himself all manner of names for thoughtlessly allowing himself to be put in such a position. If Mr. Harris should forbid Marie-Celeste to see him, or should just calmly ignore the fact that he was on board at all, it would be pretty hard to bear. And so Chris suddenly found himself face to face with the class distinctions that seem inevitable in this social world of ours, and in a way that might turn all the bright anticipations for this voyage into the reality of a most disagreeable experience. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he had acted like a fool; and rather than run the chance of being “made to know his place,” as the phrase has it, he believed he would have kept out of the way of Marie-Celeste all the way over if he had thought of it in time; but we, of course, believe nothing of the sort. How could he ever have had the heart to carry out such a doleful resolution, and what a pity if he had tried to! The truth was, Chris had too low an opinion of himself altogether. He had an idea, for instance, that he was a very plain-looking sort of a fellow, whereas there was something about him that made him distinctly noticeable everywhere he went. It was hard to tell just what it was—a brimming-over kindliness, I think, best describes it. It shone plain as day in his friendly eyes and hovered under his light mustache, and his head even seemed to be set on his shoulders in a most kindly fashion. But Chris himself was oblivious to all his charms, personal or otherwise, and in this modesty of his, and in many other ways as well, proved himself the gentleman; and the beauty of it was that Mr. Harris, being a true gentleman himself, had long ago recognized the article in his postman. It was a pity Chris should not have known this. It would have spared him a wretched hour or so that first morning at sea. Indeed, this not knowing is responsible for a great deal of this world's fret and worry, and yet too much knowing would be just as sorry a thing sometimes; so perhaps it would be as well for us to leave matters as they are for the present.
Meantime, Marie-Celeste had made her way to the bow, and to the doorway of a room there, which she had chanced to notice the afternoon before.
“Passengers are not allowed in here, are they?” she asked timidly.
“Not ordinarily,” said the captain, looking up from a chart spread out on a table before him.
Marie-Celeste could not possibly discover whether the tone was encouraging or no, but in any case she had no words with which to continue, so awe-inspiring proved the blue coat, gold braid, and the other insignia of the captain's office. Besides, it had taken so much courage to nerve herself up to the mere asking of the question, that she found she had none in reserve, and stood transfixed in the doorway, her little face aflame with embarrassment. Now, if there is a class of men anywhere who believe in what we were speaking of a minute ago (that is, a man's knowing his place), they are the captains of the ocean steamers. It is of course nothing but the enforcement of this very rule that renders ocean travel the safe and comfortable thing it is, and that assures you, even in case of accident, that the strictest discipline will be preserved. Indeed, I have an idea that Captain Revell inclines to apply the same rule to every one aboard of his great steamer, to passengers as well as to officers and crew, and so perhaps regarded the advent of Marie-Celeste in the light of an intrusion. And when you come right down to it, there was that in his tone, when he answered her question, that made her feel that he thought she should not have ventured it.
“Passengers having special business are admitted at any time, however,” added the captain, after what seemed an interminable silence, “and perhaps you have come on some special errand. If so, I should be glad to have you come in,” and the captain stood up and motioned Marie-Celeste to a seat on the other side of the table. I think he was beginning to discover what an unusually attractive little personage his visitor was, and to regret the moment's discomfiture he had caused her.
Marie-Celeste gave a very audible sigh of relief as she stepped up the two steps into the room, but she refused the proffered seat with the dignity of a little princess.
“No, I only want to stay for a moment,” she said; “I am quite sure now I oughtn't to have interrupted you, and I know papa will be angry; but I had a favor to ask, and—”
“And what, my little friend?” said the captain, quite won over to whatever the favor might be.
“And you looked so kind I dared to speak to you.”
“Kind, did I?” laughed the captain, immensely pleased. “Well, then, you must sit down, else, you see, you'll keep me standing; too, and tell me right away what the favor is, and I'll try to act up to the kindness for which you give me credit.”
“Well, it's just this, Captain Revell: first, could you let me sometimes go over into the second-class cabin?”
“Certainly I could; but what for, may I ask?”
“To see Chris Hartley; he's a second-class passenger, and he's the postman in our street; but it wouldn't do, would it, to undo the gate for me?”
“No, hardly, I think,”
“And it wouldn't do any better for me to climb over it, would it? I could do it easily.”
“No, I'm afraid that wouldn't answer.”
“Then, what are we going to do? There isn't any other way, I suppose,” with very evident despair.
“Oh, yes, there is, and I'll show it to you myself.”
Whereupon Marie-Celeste laid one little brown hand upon the captain's sleeve from an impulse of sheer gratitude, and the captain straightway laid a big brown hand atop of it.
“Now, that is what you wanted to ask first,” he said; “I am anxious to know what comes second.”
“No, I guess I won't bother you any more; I—”
“No, you shall not go till you have told me;” and the captain detained the little hand a prisoner beneath his own.
“Well, I was going to ask—you see, it is very much more interesting up here near the bow and the bridge and the crow's-nest—I was going to ask, if once in a while Chris could come over to the first cabin. You see, Chris doesn't know any one on board, excepting just me, and we're such good friends at home.”
“Well, that's a little different,” for the captain was puzzled to know how to answer, “and it's against the regulations; but it's very hard to refuse a little maid like you.”
Mr. Harris was on a search for Marie-Celeste, and chancing to pass the captain's room, glanced in, and glancing in, beheld his little daughter, and heard these last words.
“Excuse me, Captain Revell,” he said, touching his hat, and apparently much annoyed, “but I cannot imagine how my little daughter has found her way in here, or what favor she has made so bold as to ask. I trust you will not suspend any of the ship's regulations on her account.”
“Oh, that's all right,” laughed the captain, “I shall be only too glad to do what I can.”
“Oh, please don't bother any more about it—please don't,” entreated Marie-Celeste; “I was afraid papa would not like it. We'll go now, won't we?” looking up at her father with a most woful and beseeching little face.
“Yes, we will; but don't you think, Marie-Celeste, we would better ask the captain's pardon for intruding?”
“Not a bit of it,” answered Captain Revell; “there's no pardon to be asked of anybody, and I shall hope to have a call from you both very soon again,” he added cordially as his two visitors took their departure, and he settled back to his inspection of the chart.
“Don't say a word, papa, please, I don't want to cry here,” and Marie-Celeste held her father's hand very tightly.
“But you want some breakfast, dear, don't you?” Marie-Celeste shook her head, but as she seemed to know perfectly well what she did want, he suffered her to lead him over the high sill that keeps the water from rushing indoors in rough weather, and past the main stairway, and into a far corner of the library. There she pushed him gently into one of the corner sofas, and seating herself in his lap, looked straight into his eyes.
“Papa,” she said, with a little sob in her voice, “you are angry.”
“I am annoyed, Marie-Celeste.”
“You spoke pretty cross, papa; if you hadn't said 'my little daughter,' I should have cried right there—I know I should.”
“Well, you are my little daughter always, you know, no matter what happens, and that's one reason I cannot bear to have you do anything that seems the least mite bold.”
“Yes, you said something like that to the captain;” and as though she would have given all the world if he hadn't, “but I didn't mean to be bold really, only I felt so sorry for Chris;” and then she proceeded to tell, as coherently as her emotions would allow, of her unexpected encounter with her old friend, and how dreadful it would have been if they could not have seen anything of each other just because Chris was a second-cabin passenger, and of how she had mustered all her courage and gone straight to the captain to see what could be done about it.
“And he said it would be quite against the regulations, did he?” said Mr. Harris, immediately becoming interested in the situation.
“Oh, no; he said I could go to see Chris in the second cabin—he'd easily manage that—and then he said he knew I had something more on my mind, and made me tell him, and that was whether Chris could come to the first cabin sometimes, so as to look off at the bow. Do you think it was so very, very bold to ask that when he said I could not go till I told him?”
“No; that puts it in a different light, Marie-Celeste.”
“But I think—I think (for whatever her faults Marie-Celeste was fastidiously honest) the captain himself did not quite like it when I first spoke to him.”
“He got over his not-liking very quickly, then,” said her father, glad to be able to give a grain of comfort to his troubled little daughter, “but it would have been better to come to me first. It's one thing to be fearless and another thing to be—”
“I know, papa,” putting her finger to her father's lips; “please don't say that dreadful word again; I'll remember;” and Mr. Harris, knowing that she would, gave the little girl on his knee a good, hard hug, and bundled her off for a word with her mamma, comfortably tucked up in a steamer-chair on deck, and then hurried her down to the saloon for the breakfast that she stood in sore need of after such an eventful morning.
Hartley,” called a cheery voice from somewhere forward. Chris was on his feet in an instant, and turning in the direction of the voice, discovered Mr. Harris and Captain Revell. It is astonishing how much can be couched in the ring of a word when one looks carefully to it; and the tone in which Mr. Harris called “Hartley” was enough to put Chris at his ease in an instant, and to make him hurry to the little gate with all fears as to his reception skurrying to the winds. Mr. Harris at once introduced him to Captain Revell, and Captain Revell as speedily informed him of the call with which Marie-Celeste had favored him and of her errand. “We are good friends, Marie-Celeste and I,” said Hartley proudly, “and I was counting on seeing something of her on the way over, but I understand now, of course, how it cannot be, and that we must content ourselves with a word now and then here at the gate, if Mr. Harris is willing.”
“But you are mistaken, Hartley,” said the captain cordially, for he took to the man the moment he saw him. “There is nothing to prevent your little friend from making you a visit whenever she likes. I have shown her the way myself through the passage below decks, and you are welcome to come forward in the same fashion whenever the bow has any attraction for you. As you are alone, you will hardly be missed from the second cabin, and it will be unnecessary to inform anyone of your special privileges;” and then the captain, who had an aversion to being thanked, moved hurriedly away before Chris had had a chance to put his gratitude into words.
“She's a fearless little body, that little daughter of ours,” said Mr. Harris at the close of the long talk he and Chris had been having at the gate. “I sometimes wonder what we had better do about it. She arrives at decisions so quickly and acts so promptly and is so outspoken, that she'll get herself and all of us into serious trouble some day, I imagine.”
“Never you fear, Mr. Harris,” said Chris warmly; “that kind do more good than harm;” and Mr. Harris believed in his heart that Chris was right. On thinking it over, he wondered too if he had not been rather easily annoyed with Marie-Celeste that morning, and if, on the whole, she had not been more brave than bold in her call upon the captain.. He would have been quite sure on that score had he known how the little heart had thumped and the little knees trembled as she made her way to the captain's room. But in any case he did not regret having put the little daughter on her guard. It would help rather than hinder that little woman's numerous projects should she learn to think twice before putting her quick resolves into action.
Meantime, Marie-Celeste herself had been making a new friend. A gentleman, entered on the passenger list as Mr. E. H. Belden, sat just at the entrance of the main stairway, a cigar poised in his left hand, a book balanced in his right; the book closed for the moment, with his forefinger marking the place, and his elbow resting on the arm of his steamer-chair. To all appearances, Mr. E. H. Belden was absorbed in meditation, and presumably in a line of thought suggested by the book be had temporarily suspended reading—a line of thought, at any rate, that made him wholly oblivious to his surroundings. It was somewhat of a surprise, therefore, for him to find his book flying out of one hand with a momentum that swept the cigar out of the other; but he did not need to look far or long for an explanation. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” gasped a breathless little body, as quickly as she could reverse engines and bring herself in front of the offended party. “It was very careless of me. I slipped because I tried to turn too short a corner. Please let me get the book for you,” and she bounded to the spot where it had landed, while Mr. Belden, detecting a faint scorching odor, hastened to rescue the lighted cigar from the folds of a steamer rug lying on the next chair.
“I hope it hasn't strained the cover,” said Marie-Celeste, looking the book over carefully before returning it. “They are a little too fine for steamer use, aren't they?” for it was a volume from the ship's library, and boasted a costly half-calf binding.
“Yes, rather too fine,” attracted and pleased by the child's friendliness; “but you have not done it any harm, I think.”
“There was no use in my being in such a hurry. I think I will make myself sit right down here a few moments for punishment.”
“I would, by all means,” said Mr. Belden, smiling at the inference to be drawn from the remark.
“I was only on my way to our state-room for a book,” Marie-Celeste further explained. “It is called 'The Story of a Short Life.' Did you ever read it?”
“No, but I think I should like it, for I find life rather too stupidly long myself.”
“Why, how is that?” Marie-Celeste exclaimed, as though nothing could possibly have more interest for her, as indeed, for the moment, nothing could.
“Oh, I fancy I cannot exactly make you understand how. I haven't very good health, that's one reason; and too much money, that's another; and not very much faith in human nature, for a third; besides, no one in the world that I care very much for; so you see I am in rather a bad plight.” Marie-Celeste sat and stared at Mr. Belden, and Mr. Belden, all intent, closely watched the effect of this somewhat unusual declaration.
“What is your family motto?” she queried, after a moment's serious reflection.
“Why in Heaven do you ask that?” for Mr. Belden, who was not in the habit of talking to children, was not as wise as he might have been in his choice of words.
Marie-Celeste straightened up a little, as though to show she did not quite approve, and then she replied, with an air of childish dignity that was vastly amusing, “Because it was his family motto that helped Leonard (he's the boy in the story I spoke about) ever so much, and that taught him to be cheerful and contented, and it seems to me”—this last very slowly and thoughtfully—“that you are very much like Leonard, only grown up. I suppose, as you're English, you've surely got a family motto.”
“How do you know I'm English?”
“Oh, because papa said, when you were walking on the deck last evening, that 'you were very English indeed.'”
“Well, do you think, on the whole, that your father meant to be complimentary?”
“I do not know exactly, but papa likes almost everything in England, and we have some English relatives whom we are very fond of. They live in Windsor, and we are going to spend the summer with them.”
“In Windsor?” with evident surprise; “and what is their name, may I ask?”
“Harris, the same as ours;” for Marie-Celeste detected nothing unusual in the question.
“So?” and then, as Mr. Belden seemed suddenly to retire into himself and his own thoughts, she made a move to go.
“Oh, don't go yet; seems to me you ought to talk to me a while longer, if only for punishment, as you said.”
“Oh, no, I didn't say quite that,” for the first time appreciating the situation; “but anyhow I shall not bother about it, because you know what I meant.”
“Of course I do,” more touched than he would have cared to admit by her confiding friendliness; “but I want you to wait,” he added, “while I try to answer your question about our family motto. I've never thought much about it, but it's 'Dwell as though about to depart,' or some cheerful stuff like that. It's the kind of a motto, you see, to give one an unsettled sort of feeling, instead of making him contented.”
“It's queer,” said Marie-Celeste, “but I believe—yes, I'm sure that very motto stands at the head of one of the chapters in my book.”
“Indeed? Why, then, I should like to read it. Will you have finished with it before the voyage is over?”
“Oh, I'm through with it now really. I'll get it for you right away,” and suiting the action to the word, she was off one moment and back the next with the book in her hand.
“Tell me a little what it's about, please,” urged Mr. Belden, unwilling to let this new little friend give him the slip, and nothing loath, Marie-Celeste settled comfortably back in the steamer-chair beside him.
“You think it won't spoil it for you?” she asked, by way of preface.
“Not a bit of it.”
And thus reassured, she launched out upon a detailed narration of Mrs. Ewing's beautiful story, graphically describing little Leonard's fortunes and trials, and his heroic self-mastery at the last.
“You see he wasn't a goody boy at all,” she said, when all was told, “just brave and grand.”
“I see,” said Mr. Belden, which was quite true, notwithstanding a strange and wholly new sensation in his eyes. “And now if you will excuse me,” he added, “I will go down to the smoking-room and commence the book at once.”
Marie-Celeste was rather surprised to find herself left thus abruptly alone. Happily for her, however, she did not know how sadly akin to Leonard's had been some of Mr. Belden's experiences, or she would have flinched a little in the telling. It was the realization of this kinship of experience and yet of the widely different effect upon soul and character that had impelled him to take his sudden leave of Marie-Celeste, and then, pausing a moment at the smoking-room door, he went on and down to his state-room, for he had much to think over, and a long, long time he sat there, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
Although a transcendent interest in grown-up people is one of the traits that make it worth while to tell this story of a summer in the life of little Marie-Celeste, yet she was none the less a friend of children of her own age, or over it or under it for that matter, provided they seemed to stand in want of a friend. Otherwise, it must be confessed, she concerned herself very little about them. Born with a positive genius for spending and being spent, the claims and opportunities of ordinary child friendships seemed hardly to give her enough breathing room; and so it chanced that she passed very little time with the faultlessly dressed and somewhat overcared-for children of the steamer, who did not seem to need her, and a great deal of time with Chris and Mr. Belden, who did. Be it said to the credit of the latter gentleman that, after that first conversation with Marie-Celeste, he was far more careful in the way he talked with her, and Mr. Harris was quick to discover the fact, or the new friendship would have ended as unexpectedly for Mr. Belden as it had begun. There was about Marie-Celeste at all times the same implicit childish confidence that unnerved the bold robber in “Editha's Burglar,” and yet she herself was always quick to discover when this same confidence was being taken advantage of, and when she would best fly to cover. More than once she had shown in her contact with people an inerrancy of intuition (if my youngest readers will excuse two such big words) that had greatly gratified her father and mother, who had a theory of their own about the education of children, and gave her rather more rein than some would consider either safe or advisable. At the same time, every movement of the little daughter was carefully watched and every project followed up by a certain paternal relative, and never more so than during those days of steamer life, when so many hours were passed with the new friend and the postman. When with Chris it was forward clear to the bow to lean over the rail and see the magnificent prow cut the water; or way to the stern, to watch the far-shining train, the screws churned into white foam behind them; or an hour 'midships, where the ever-varying amusements with which the steerage passengers beguile the weary hours can be looked down upon from the saloon deck of either first or second cabin. Then, at five every clear day, afternoon tea with the captain, for which they had a standing invitation, and by means of which both she and Chris came to be on terms of wonderful intimacy with that august officer, so that they joked over the rare souchong and delicious little toasted cakes (the secret of whose making was kept close-guarded by the steward) with a familiarity that, to themselves at least, never ceased to be a wonder. With Mr. Belden everything was different. It was generally after an hour or so of prowling about with Chris, and when she was a little tired and in the mood for a quiet talk, that she would seek him out; and, as a rule, she would find him comfortably tucked up in a steamer rug, with another awaiting her coming on a chair beside him. Then Chris, after carefully tucking her in, in most approved fashion, would be off, with a touch of his hat, and with profound gratitude in his heart for the strength of limb and muscle that made him regard Mr. Belden's inactive life in the light of a sorry burden. That the latter often so regarded himself was evident in the ever-deepening lines of weariness that seamed his pale and handsome face.
“Well, what have you and your good Chris been up to to-day?” would be invariably Mr. Belden's first question; and after Marie-Celeste had told the little or much there was to tell, they would as invariably drift round to talking about books, for they both loved them. One day it was “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “Hans Brinker,” and then Marie-Celeste “had the floor”; and the next it was “The Story of a Short Life,” when honors were even, as they used to say in whist, because both had so lately read it. And then for three days together, during the hour for the daily chat, Marie-Celeste sat an entranced listener, while the wonderful story was told of beautiful little Isabel of Valois, the child-queen whom Richard of Bordeaux brought to England at the age of nine, and whose childish reign was so soon concluded. It had chanced that the book that had been brushed so summarily from Mr. Belden's hand when Marie-Celeste made his acquaintance had proved to be Dixon's “Royal Windsor;” and as soon as the terms of their friendship were unquestionably established, she made so bold as to ask many questions regarding its contents; for what could have more interest for a Windsor-bound little maiden than the story of the Royal Castle? And the best part of it was that the book happened to be the second volume, and therefore contained the history of Madame la Petite Reine, as the little French Isabel was called. Never proved fairy tale more charming than this true story as it fell from Mr. Belden's lips. Over and over he told it, adding each time some delightful new touch of detail, till at last Marie-Celeste knew it quite by heart, and rested therein contented.
But not all of their little daughter's time, that Mr. and Mrs. Harris were willing to spare to others, was spent with these grown-up friends of hers. On the second day out Chris had made a most interesting and pathetic discovery. A little sick bugler was stowed away in an undesirable second-cabin state-room that had remained unengaged; and Chris, noticing that a bowl of broth or some sort of nourishing food was carried thither three times a day, but that apart from this no one ever entered or left the state-room, questioned the steward, and as soon as he learned the facts, made his own way in, to the great delight of the lonely little fellow. Then the next morning he interested Mrs. Harris (who was proving a far better sailor than any one had dared to hope) in his new little protégé, and after that, as a matter of course, Marie-Celeste and the little bugler became the best of friends.
“Donald,” she said on her second visit, for the one preceding had naturally been limited to the ordinary themes of first acquaintance, “I wish you would tell me a little more about yourself. Mamma says you have been ill a long time in New York with a fever, but that now you are quite over it and are on your way home; and that's all we know.”
“That's all there is,” running one little white hand through his hair as he spoke, in an apparent effort to make himself more presentable.
“Oh, you're all right,” said Marie-Celeste, smiling; “curly hair like yours looks better when it's mussed.”
“Would you like me to come and straighten you up a bit?” called Chris, who had really established himself as Donald's nurse, and sat whittling in his own state-room just across the passage.
“No, Chris, he doesn't need you at all,” Marie-Celeste volunteered; “he looks very fine as he is” (which gracious compliment brought a very becoming color to the little blanched face). “Besides, Chris, he is going to tell me something about himself—aren't you, Donald? Just what you choose, though, you know, because mamma said I must not seem to be inquisitive, and I'm not, Donald, really—just interested, that's all.”
“What kind of things do you want to know?” as though quite willing to be communicative, but at a loss where to begin.
“Why, how you happened to be a bugler, and how you happened to be ill in New York, and where your home is?”
“No home,” said Donald, laconically, and with an unconscious little sigh that went straight to Marie-Celeste's heart; “I was in the Foundling Hospital all my life till I came on the Majestic.
“Ill all your life!” exclaimed Marie-Celeste.
“Oh lands, no! I never was ill a day that I know of till that fever got hold of me.”
“Then why did you stay in an hospital?”
“It was more what we call an asylum in America,” explained Chris, who, as a permitted eavesdropper, felt at liberty to join in the conversation on occasion.
“It's a place,” explained Donald, “where children are cared for who haven't any particular fathers or mothers.”
“Oh!” said Marie-Celeste, but in a bewildered way, as though she could not quite take in the idea.
“It isn't very pleasant not knowing who you belong to, but it isn't such a bad place to stay. They keep things scrubbed up to the nines, and everything's as neat and well ordered as a ship. I think being trained that way was one thing that made me want to go to sea.”
It was easy to see, from the grave look on Marie-Celeste's face, that she was still pondering the sad predicament of “no particular father or mother,” but she asked, “Where was the hospital, Donald?”
“In London; and like as not if you go there you'll go out to see it. They always have lots of visitors on Sundays. They dress the girls up awful pretty in black dresses with short sleeves, and mitts that come way up over the elbow, like ladies' gloves at a party, and caps and kerchiefs folded crosswise round their shoulders, like this.”
“You've seen a picture of them singing out of a book, haven't you?” called Chris, by way of illustration.
“Why, so I have,” said Marie-Celeste; “we gave an artist-proof of it to our minister one Christmas.”
“I've seen it too,” continued Donald, wondering whether an artist-proof and a waterproof had anything in common; “but the girls aren't often so handsome as that; but I'll tell you when they do look pretty as a picture: that's on a clear Sunday morning, just about midway in the service, when the sun comes streaming through one of the choir windows in a great white shaft of light, I think they call it. It just goes slanting across the benches, and then the girls it happens to strike, no matter how homely they are, really look just beautiful, with their white caps and kerchiefs all lighted up in the sunshine. I used to think they put the girls on that side to show them off, for the boys just look pretty much as boys always do.”
“But you have a home now, haven't you, Donald, that you're going to when we reach England?”
“No; I don't know where I'm going I haven't decided,” he added, with studied indifference; for Donald preferred not to burden these new friends of his with his trials and perplexities. Likely as not he would be able to find some decent enough place in Liverpool, and he thought, if he managed very carefully, his savings might be made to hold out till he could put to sea again on his dear old Majestic.
“And now I'd like to know all about you,” said Donald, by way of changing the subject; “there must be a deal more to tell when you've had your father and mother to help you remember things, than when you've had to do all the remembering yourself. Getting your start in a foundling hospital is sort of like being led into the world blindfold.”
“Pretty old talk for a youngster,” thought Chris; “but I suppose it comes along of his being alone half the time, with so much chance to think.”
“Would you like me to commence at the very beginning,” asked Marie-Celeste, “when I was just a mere scrap of a thing?” Donald nodded assent.
“Well, then, I was rather good-looking, if you don't mind, and a real sunshiny little body, papa says.” Donald looked as though he could readily believe it, and Chris, in the retirement of his stateroom, shook his head, as though he felt sure of it.
“But of course I soon got over that, and almost as soon as I was in short dresses I began to show I had quite a little will of my own, and then for two or three years they had a pretty hard time with me. I would have regular tantrums, and just kick and scream if I couldn't do just what I wanted to. I had two dear little brothers then, and I remember—-yes, I remember this myself—how they used to amuse me and try to make me good. And sometimes they seemed very proud of me, and sometimes, Donald, I was proud of myself, too. Mamma used to dress me in white dresses with short sleeves that came just to my elbow, tied round with pink or blue ribbons, and a sash to match, tied on one side in front, and I knew it was pretty and stylish, and used to walk around with my head in the air, and people would laugh and say I was awfully cunning. Somehow or other I was rather spoiled, you see; but when I was only five years old Louis and Jack died, both in one week, of diphtheria, and mamma says from that week I have never given her any real trouble. It seemed as though I remembered how Louis and Jack wanted me to be good, and so I did try very hard. And now I almost always think of them when I am getting into a temper, and if I get the best of it, I feel that they know and are glad.”
“It must have been hard for your mother to do without them,” said Donald a little awkwardly, but with his face full of sympathy.
“Very hard, Donald; and oh, how she used to cry; but mamma is very good and sweet, and is so thankful that she has papa and me left. You know, Jack and Louis used to say, 'Jesus, gentle Shepherd.' at bedtime every night, just as I do, and mamma says she thinks of them now, just as little lambs safe-folded by the dear Shepherd they used to pray to every night. I think it's that that makes her brave and bright.”
“That's a beautiful way to think,” said Donald warmly, and Chris thought so too, and stopped whittling.
“Have you no brothers or sisters now?” questioned Donald.
“No, none; so, you see, it would be a shame if I didn't try to be all the comfort I could; and now you know all there is about me.”
“Why, no, I don't,” said Donald, surprised, folding his hands behind his head by way of a change of position; “I don't know where you live, or where you are going, or how you came to know Mr. Hartley, or what you are going to do this summer;” whereupon Marie-Celeste straightway proceeded to give all the desired information, and more besides.
Watchful Chris thought he began to detect signs of weariness in Donald's occasional answers, and as soon as he felt sure of it he bundled Marie-Celeste off in a hurry, and pinning a shawl over the port-hole, left the little convalescent for a nap undisturbed in his darkened state-room.
And now you have at least an idea of how Marie-Celeste passed her time on the steamer, and you can understand how there might have been some people rather less glad than sorry when they felt the machinery stop at two o'clock one morning, and knew that the Queenstown passengers were being transferred to the tender, and that before sunset all the people aboard the great steamer would be separated to the four winds. Chris was sorry, because he had looked forward with so much pleasure to the voyage across with Marie-Celeste, and it had all so far exceeded his expectations.
Donald was sorry, because he never had met “such lovely people” as the Harrises and Mr. Hartley, and never expected to again, and I half believe Mr. Belden was sorriest of all. He was going right up to his club in London, to lead the same old loveless, self-centred life, and somehow the glimpse of something very different he had had through Marie-Celeste made it appear more vapid and colorless than ever. But the steamer did not mind how any of her passengers were feeling—she must make the best possible record, no matter who was glad or sorry; and on she steamed, past lonely and beautiful Holyhead, and then through the wide Irish Sea (that seems indeed a veritable ocean in its wideness), until land once more was sighted and the harbor reached, and the anchor dropped off the wonderful docks at Liverpool. And then, in a few moments, the tender that was to land them was bearing down upon them, and a handsome, eager-faced little fellow, in an Eton jacket, was standing as far forward as possible in her bow, and an older fellow, who resembled the younger one closely, was standing, I am happy to say, close beside him.