It was marvellous what a change came over the pretty little house where Ted and Harold lived almost as soon as Aunt Lou, as they called Mrs. Harris, came to feel at home there. The servants were the same that had been with them at the time of their mother's death, and had been as faithful as they knew how to be, even when their patience had been well-nigh exhausted by “Mr. Theodores” unreasonable demands of the previous summer; and, indeed, unreasonable had been no word for it. There are boys and girls everywhere who know, to their sorrow, what it means to have the big brother come home from college. How he does lord it over the rest of us! And if he chances to bring a new chum along with him, whom he rather wants to impress, then heigh-ho! for a hard time for everybody. He pays little or no heed at all to the ordinary regulations of the household, and meals must wait for an hour, or be served in a jiffy, as best suits his humor or convenience. Of course there are some good fellows of whom this is not true at all, and even those of whom it is, as a rule, in time get over it; but meanwhile the mothers grow quite worn out sometimes, and the mischief fares on past mending. So much for our little protest against a tendency of college life. The bother of it is, it is not likely in the least to help matters. As for Ted, you can imagine the life he led those servants of his, with four college-men his guests for the summer, and no one to gainsay him. Early and late they were kept slaving away, with never a spark of consideration shown them, and nothing but the love they had borne their mistress and an occasional kind word from Harold, proving how he felt in the matter, had carried them through it. Still faithful as they had been, something had gone out of the house with its sweet little mistress, that had happily come in again with Aunt Lou, and Harold was quick to recognize it.
“Is it possible you've been here only a week?” he asked as they all sat together one evening in the library—that is, with the exception of Theodore, whose spring term still kept him at Oxford.
“Just a week to-day, Harold,” said Aunt Lou, looking up from a great mass of crocheting, that would soon be a full-grown afghan; “I hope it hasn't seemed more like a month to you, dear.”
“It has seemed as though mother was back—that's the way it has seemed, and it's been like a bit of heaven and if ever Mrs. Harris felt repaid for anything in her life, she felt repaid that moment for their journey across three thousand miles of water.
“I wonder what it is makes such a difference with a woman—that is, a lady—in the house?” Harold added. “I suppose you can't exactly understand it, but even the books, and things on that table there, have a different look since you came, Aunt Lou.”
Aunt Lou crocheted away for dear life, and looked very happy, and Uncle Fritz laid aside his book, and announced wisely, “I can tell you what makes the difference if you want to know, Harold; it's the countless little touches here and there. You notice now and then, and you'll see that Aunt Lou is forever changing the position of something, if it's only a chair as she passes or the lowering of a window-shade by the fraction of an inch. It's a sort of intuitive—”
“It's just mamma's own self, that's what it is,” interrupted Marie-Celeste, since her father seemed to be at a loss for a word, and she put her two arms around her mother's neck, as much as to say, “Isn't a mother like mine the darlingest thing?” and then a little fellow, who didn't have any mother, quite unconsciously to himself, drew a great deep sigh, and Mrs. Harris gave her little daughter a furtive push from her. Marie-Celeste looked puzzled a moment, and then she understood.
“Remember, my little girl,” Mrs. Harris had said to her more than once, “that there's nothing but sin itself has so many heavy hearts to answer for as thoughtlessness; and thoughtfulness, next to love, has lightened and brightened more hearts than anything else in the world and Marie-Celeste knew how thoughtless she had been to press home upon Harold in any way a keener sense of his own great loss. Resolved that it should never happen again, and annoyed at herself beside, Marie-Celeste moved away to the window on the other side of the room. There was somebody sitting at the window—somebody half asleep in a great arm-chair, and all but purring with contentment, and it was no one else than Donald, if you please. It had all come about so beautifully, that morning that Harold had come out to meet them on the tender, at Liverpool. It had taken nearly two hours to transfer the baggage after the steamer had come to anchor, and during that time Marie-Celeste had stolen away to have a last chat with Donald. He sat propped up in Mr. Belden's steamer-chair, whither two of the stewards had carried him, and lying out there in the open air, he seemed to look paler than ever.
“Who is your little white-faced friend?” Harold had asked at the first opportunity.
“Oh, that is Donald you heard mamma speak about!”
“Donald who?”
“Oh, I don't really know who, and nobody does! He is called Donald Brown. He was brought up in the Foundling Hospital, in London, and hasn't any particular father or mother.”
“My! but that's hard; and he's been awfully ill, hasn't he?”
“Yes, for weeks and weeks in New York with a fever; and he hasn't gained a bit of strength on the voyage, either.”
“He's going home, I suppose?”
“He's going: somewhere, but I don't believe he knows where. The steamer, he says, seems most like home to him. He's one of the cabin boys and buglers when he's well.”
“I say,” said Harold, “let's bring him home to Windsor!”
“Oh, could you?” cried Marie-Celeste, who had thought of the selfsame thing herself, but had not dared to suggest it.
“I wonder if Ted will mind?” as though thinking the matter over. “I think I'd better ask him; but I shall do it anyway, since this is my summer.”
“Your summer?” but Harold had no time to explain, and hurried over to Ted, who was talking with Uncle Fritz and Aunt Lou, and who was gracious enough to say, “Do as you like, Harold and as that, you see, was just what Harold had meant to do, there was no trouble at all about it. And this was the beautiful way it had happened, and Donald was being built up and strengthened with all sorts of nourishing food, and was gaining strength every day.
“Donald,” said Marie-Celeste, curling up on the window bench beside his chair, “just how do you feel this morning?”
“First-rate; better than any day yet,” said Donald, who, by the way, never called Marie-Celeste by any name whatsoever—“Marie-Celeste” seemed quite too familiar, and “Miss Harris” was out of the question.
“Well, then, do you want to hear about it now?” she asked eagerly.
“You bet I do,” and then Donald begged her pardon with a blush.
“It's quite a long story; are you sure you feel strong enough?”
“Sure;” and forthwith Marie-Celeste sailed away on the wings of a marvellous story. It had been a wonderful week, that first week at Windsor, and Marie-Celeste had tried to see it all with two pairs of eyes; for born little Englishman though Donald probably was, it had been only since he had actually come to Windsor that he knew anything whatever about it. Coming out in the train from London, the beautiful castle had first flashed upon our little party, through the perfect arch of the frequent English rainbow, and Donald had straightway asked, “Oh, what is that?” and Marie-Celeste had straightway replied, “Why, Donald, of course that's the castle!”
“Whose castle?”
“The Queen of England's, Donald!” as though such a lack of knowledge was simply incredible. So, you see, there was a vast amount of ignorance to be enlightened, and Marie-Celeste was fairly revelling at the prospect of being the one to do it.
“You know,” she said, commencing in a low tone, so as not to disturb the others, and with the introductory long breath of the conventional story-teller, “we have been through the castle three times, so I really know a great deal about it, and it is very fortunate that the Queen happened to be in London, or we shouldn't have seen some of the rooms at all.”
“In the first place, Donald, you know how the castle looks from the outside—the beautiful gray stone walls and the towers with the turrets everywhere you turn.”
“What are turrets?” asked Donald, giving evidence at once of such an eager desire to acquire information as Marie-Celeste feared in the long run might prove rather annoying.
“Oh, I believe it's a round wall that goes like that on the top!” tracing an imaginary line in the air with one finger. “Well, you go in at one of the gates, and it's just as though you were in a little city of itself. There are roadways and sidewalks and street lamps, and a big church right in front of you, and people coming and going, just like a city. And there's a guard at the gate, and there are guards everywhere. They didn't look very fine, though, for every time they've had on their coats for fear of rain, and seemed all coat and gloves. You know how horrid white cotton gloves are?”
For the sake of agreement Donald nodded assent, but he should have thought himself that white gloves of any sort would have been quite imposing, and above all on a soldier.
“Well, the first place we went into was the Albert Chapel; and oh, Donald, but it's beautiful! There's a marble floor shaped in diamonds and circles, and there are such beautiful stained-glass windows, and under each window a picture of something from the Bible, and these pictures are made of different sorts of marble, somehow, and there's a great deal of gold in them, that makes them more beautiful still. But, best of all, because I love anything that has to do with real people, there is a portrait in marble right underneath each window of one of the Queen's children. They are raised, you know, from a flat background, not cut all round like a statue.”
“Yes, I understand,” really very much interested; “but why do they call it the Albert Chapel?”
“I was just going to ask you if you knew,” with an extremely patronizing air, which Donald noticed, but was quite too courteous to resent.
“It is called that because Albert was the name of the Queen's husband, the Prince Consort, and after his death the Queen built it to his memory. No, she didn't exactly build it, either. There was a king built it long ago for his tomb, and it has quite a history, I believe; but it was the Queen who made it beautiful as it is now. And underneath is a great big tomb, where ever so many royal people are buried—kings and queens and princes and princesses.”
“Is Prince Albert buried there?”
“No; I was going to tell you he is buried in a mausoleum (very proud of the word) at Frogmore, just beyond the Long Walk, as they call it, where we drove you, you remember, day before yesterday.”
“Well, I guess I shall always remember it; I never saw anything so lovely in my life. It looked just like a picture they used to have in a book called 'Pilgrim's Progress at the hospital.” Impatient of the interruption, Marie-Celeste shook her head, as much as to say, “Oh, yes, of course anybody knows about 'Pilgrim's Progress;'” but Donald, stopping merely to catch his breath, continued: “The name under it was Beulah Land, and it meant a sort of heaven; and the Long Walk looked to me as though it might be a straight road to Beulah Land.” And older people than Donald have thought the selfsame thing, as they have looked down the same matchless avenue, with its wonderful far-reaching vista of branching elms, and its perfect driveway diminishing to a thread in the distance, with here and there a flock of grazing sheep roaming its ample grass-grown borders, and finding rich and abundant pasture.
“Yes, it does look like that,” said Marie-Celeste, merely by way of politeness, and then at once resumed eagerly: “But although the Prince is not really buried in the chapel, there's a beautiful tomb to his memory right in front of the chancel. You must surely see it some day, Donald. The figure of the Prince lies right along the top of it, and he has on wonderful armor, and at his feet is a carved statue of his favorite hound. I think it was fine in them to put it there, don't you? It seems as though faithful dogs ought to be remembered just as well as people. Then there's another beautiful tomb to Prince Leopold. He is really buried there, and he—but I suppose you'll be more interested in the castle even than in the chapel.” and as Donald looked as though he thought he might, and as that was exactly the way he was expected to look, Marie-Celeste complacently continued: “Well, first you go up a flight of steps, and you find yourself in a sort of vestibule; and there's a splendid portrait of the architect there—the man who restored the old parts of the castle and added new parts to it and made it all beautiful as it is now; and from this vestibule you go on and on from one grand room to another. They call them the State Apartments; and they are stately, I can tell you, and some of them have very high-sounding names that I cannot remember. There are wonderful tapestries on the walls—pictures made in a loom somehow—and portraits everywhere of royal people. Then there's a room they call the Guard Room, where they have suits of ancient armor; and there's a great oak writing-table in it made from the wood of the old Arctic ship Resolute; and it tells in an inscription on it how she was abandoned by the English, and how she was found by an American whaling-ship captain three years afterwards, who got her free from the ice. And after that the American Government fitted her out and gave her to Her Majesty Queen Victoria as a token of friendship; and then, when she was broken up, a few years ago, they made the table out of the wood. Then there's a chair besides, that's made from an elm-tree that grew where the English beat Napoleon on the field of Waterloo; and in another part of the room, on a piece of a mast, there's a great colossal bust of Lord Nelson; and I'm ashamed to say I don't know anything about him, but we ought to, Donald.”
“And what's more, we do,” interrupted Donald, with a little mischievous smile of satisfaction; “I guess you can't find a sailor boy on land or sea too young to know about Lord Nelson. If you'd ever been to London you'd know something about him yourself, for one of the grandest squares there is called after the great battle he won at Trafalgar, and there's an ever-so-high column in the centre of it, with a statue of Lord Nelson on top of it. Oh, you ought to see Trafalgar Square, I can tell you!”
“And I shall, of course. No one would come to England without going up to London, would they? But I think you have told me very little about Lord Nelson for Marie-Celeste was somewhat suspicious of Donald's ability in that direction. She soon found to her sorrow, however, that she was mistaken: for Donald forthwith launched forth into such a detailed account of Lord Nelson's history, from his voyage as a boy to the North Pole, to his last great, glorious battle, that the patience of that young lady, who was rather more eager at all times to impart information than to receive it, was sorely tried. Donald, nevertheless, was greatly advanced thereby in her estimation, since it seemed that marvellous ignorance in one direction was unquestionably offset by an astonishing amount of information in another.
“Well, I am rather glad to know about him,” said Marie-Celeste at the first opportunity; “and now I'll go on with the castle, shall I?” And Donald, somewhat exhausted by his efforts, was altogether willing that she should.
“Let me see! Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember—the Guard Room. Well, the next room to that is the Banqueting all, a wonderful, great, big place, and the ceiling is covered with the crests of the Knights of the Garter. Do you know anything about the Knights of the Garter, Donald?”
Donald, looking utterly mystified, shook his head.
“I do, then,” chimed in Harold, who had been listening to the latter part of the conversation; and over he came to the window, dragging his chair after him. “Those old Knights are great favorites of mine. Do you want me to tell you about them?”
“Yes,” said Donald very cordially; and Marie-Celeste said “yes” as cordially as was possible, considering it meant she should again relinquish her province of story-teller; but Harold, wholly unconscious, proceeded.
“You see,” he said, “you stumble across the Order of the Garter everywhere you turn here at Windsor, and so I've read up a good deal about them, and it's all just as interesting as any story you ever heard. The Order was founded—”
“What do you mean, 'The Order was founded?'” interrupted Donald, who was not going to have anything taken for granted.
“Oh, the Brotherhood of Knights! That is what an Order is, you know, and this one was founded way back in the fourteenth century, in the time of Edward the Third; and they say the way it came to be called the Order of the Garter was this: That King Edward was dancing with the Countess of Salisbury, when she had the misfortune to lose her garter; and then as he stooped to pick it up, and saw every one smiling, he gallantly announced, 'that they should shortly see that garter advanced to so high an honor and renown as to account themselves happy to wear it.'”
“Oh, that was elegant!” cried Marie-Celeste; “that is just my idea of a Knight.”
“Oh, they were truly elegant old fellows in ever so many ways, and they wore elegant clothes, I can tell you; and they do still, for that matter.”
“Why, are there any Knights nowadays?” questioned Donald, incredulously.
“Why, of course there are; and it's a very high honor, indeed, to be made a Knight of the Garter.”
“Made a Knight?” for Marie-Celeste had an idea that the article was born, not made.
“Why, of course, Marie-Celeste; that is, when a man is a great man to start with, and then does something to make himself greater, the Queen may reward him by permitting him to become a member of the Order, if there happens to be a vacancy; and there's nothing much finer can happen to a man than that.”
“But there isn't any real garter business about it now, is there?” asked Donald.
“Indeed there is. To every new Knight made the Queen gives a dark blue velvet garter, and what's more, they are never to appear in public without them, unless booted for riding, and then they are allowed to wear a ribbon of blue silk under their left boot instead. And there's lots more that's awfully interesting about the Knights; and I tell you what, some day, when Donald's stronger, we'll go up to the castle and St. George's Chapel, and sort of spend the day with the Knights, looking at everything that belongs to them. But now you know something of what the crests on the ceiling of the Banqueting Hall mean, and the shields in the panels along the sides, that are waiting for the crests of the Knights that may hereafter be admitted into the Order. In fact, everything in that room has to do with the Knights. The Garter and the Cross of St. George are even woven into the pattern of the carpet.”
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Marie-Celeste; “I know very little, indeed, about St. George; and was there ever any place like Windsor for showing you how little you do know, anyway?”
“No, Marie-Celeste, there never was,” chimed in Mrs. Harris; for both she and Mr. Harris had been listening with interest to Donald; “but you ought not to mind that as much as we older folks, who are expected to know a great deal more than you little people. Why, when we first went through the castle the other day with Canon Allyn, I was half afraid to open my lips, for fear of betraying some new ignorance.”
“Well, I wouldn't be afraid any more; you know twice as much as most ladies;” for Harold was already the devoted champion of Aunt Lou, and lost no opportunity for proving his devotion.
“Now, go on with the castle, please,” urged Donald, secretly hoping there would be no more interruptions.
“Oh, well,” said Marie-Celeste with a sigh, as though becoming oppressed with the greatness of her undertaking; “besides the Banqueting Hall there's the Grand Reception-Room, with a beautiful plate-glass window forming almost all of one end of it, and there's the Waterloo Room, filled with portraits of officers who fought there, and then, in a place they call the Grand Vestibule, there's a splendid statue of the Queen. Everything's grand, you see, wherever you turn.”
“Well, Oueen or no, I'm sure I shouldn't like to have everything so tearing grand,” said Donald, more expressively than elegantly.
“No, nor I; and the Queen doesn't really live in these grand rooms, either. You can only see her very own rooms from the outside, and you can only imagine what they are like; but they point out which is the drawing-room and which is her sitting-room, and they don't call them grand anything, for a comfort, so I suppose they're lovely and homelike, like other people's; but they do look out on a grand garden—the East Terrace they call it. You saw it the same day we drove down the Long Walk. You remember the bushes all trimmed up to a point, and the flower-beds and the statues, and the fountains playing in the centre. And near the Terrace, Donald, is the Photographer's Studio. Think of having a place all fitted up just to take the pictures of the Queen's own family! That's kind of regal, isn't it? But the finest thing of all is the Royal Pantry. I would give a good deal to look in it. It is crammed full of all sorts of gold things and a gold dinner service of one hundred and fifty pieces.”
Donald's eyes opened as wide at this as extreme drowsiness would let them, so that it was easy to discover that the little convalescent was growing pretty tired.
“Well, you must just see it all for yourself some day,” Marie-Celeste wisely concluded; “and you had better go to bed now, Donald.”
Never in all this world was there a happier little host than Harold Harris when he found how kindly his guests from across the water were taking to the life at Windsor; but who would not have taken kindly to it, I should like to know? The Queen herself, in her great castle on the hill, could not have planned more for the comfort of her guests than did Harold in his little castle beneath it; and, indeed, this name of Little Castle had somehow attached itself to the pretty stone house, with its round tower and moat-shaped terrace.
It had been an idle bachelor's fancy to build after this unique fashion some ten years before; but when Harold's mother had come seeking a home in Windsor, he was already tired of it, and she found the house was “To be let,” provided desirable tenants could be found; and “desirable” the little widow proved in the eyes of the discriminating agent. “None more so,” he thought complacently when he called for the first quarter's rent, and saw what a gem of a place she had made it. All the contents of the house in London, which after her husband's death had seemed too sad a place to live in, had been brought into the ivy-covered little castle, and under her transforming touch it had soon become as cheery and cosey as possible. But it was not enough for Harold that he was able to invite his friends into such an attractive home. A room in the top story, with a fine north light, was fitted up as a studio for Uncle Fritz, who, though a business man by circumstance, was an artist through and through. For Aunt Lou an up-stairs sitting-room was converted into a little study; for although Aunt Lou herself was rather loath to confess it, it was nevertheless somewhat generally known that she was very fond of writing stories for children. For Marie-Celeste there seemed nothing in particular that could be done, save to make her own little room as inviting as could be. To accomplish this, Harold conferred with a friend of Ted's, Canon Allyn's daughter. Miss Allyn, who had been a great favorite of Harold's mother, was only too glad to have him turn to her, and entered into all the preparations with an enthusiasm that was very delightful. She suggested, among other things, a valance and curtains for the little brass bedstead, already purchased, and then went herself and selected a soft, white material and superintended their making. At her suggestion, too, the couch and chairs were upholstered with a pretty flower-patterned cretonne, and some lovely white-framed etchings were hung upon the tinted walls. Then, by grace of his own idea of fitness, Harold had added to the other furnishings a Dresden china toilet-set, and in this he was perhaps far wiser than he knew, for is there anything so well calculated to captivate at sight the heart of a dainty little maiden as the mysterious round-topped boxes that compose the dainty outfit of the ideal dressing-table? Then, to crown it all, a pair of ponies and a basket-phaeton had been purchased for the exclusive use of the guests that were to be. Of course, all this meant money; but with the exception of the previous summer, when Theodore's guests had cost him such a pretty penny, Harold had conscientiously lived a good way inside his income, so that there was a reserve fund to draw on, on demand. As I said, then, who would not have taken kindly to the life at Windsor under such conditions, and have lost no time in stowing themselves happily away in the special niche prepared for them? So Mr. Harris painted as for dear life in all weathers, indoors or out, as the fancy struck him, and Mrs. Harris turned her leisure to account for a bit of writing now and then, and in between times they drove hither and thither in the basket-phaeton, and, one by one, took in all the sights of old and delightful Windsor. And Marie-Celeste did likewise, as far as the driving and sight-seeing were concerned; but having no greater responsibility than the arrangement of the Dresden boxes on the little dressing-table, wandered about at her own sweet will, in the hours while Harold was at school and when every one else was busy. And the place to which she wandered most often was to St. George's Chapel, which at the time of her talk with Donald she had not yet had the good fortune to visit. But with Marie-Celeste, as with some of the rest of us, to know St. George's was to love it, and she had soon gained a standing permission to go there whenever she liked; and that was very often—so often, in fact, that any one who saw her one lovely May morning tripping down the walk from the Little Castle, as though bent upon some special errand, could easily have guessed her destination. It was a matter of five minutes to reach the corner of High Street, and of three minutes more to climb Castle Hill; then a smile to the guard who happened to be on duty at the gate, and she was within the castle walls. And once there she stopped to take it all in, for it had never seemed so beautiful before; and then in a moment she knew what new touch had been added to the scene. The sun had shone as brilliantly, and the gray round tower, with its grass-grown terraces, had stood out as clearly against the blue of the English sky, but never before—for Marie-Celeste, that is—had those terraces been abloom with great masses of lilacs. Two days had come and gone since her last visit, and the showers and sunshine intervening had flashed the myriad tiny buds of every cluster into full and transcendent bloom. No wonder the child held her breath, spellbound from sheer delight, and no wonder, too, that the spell lost its power to hold her the moment she spied a darling, new little friend of hers standing in the chapel doorway. “And—and now good-morning,” rang out a cheery little voice as she had hastened up the path.
“Good-morning, Albert,” answered Marie-Celeste, smiling at the expected, “and now,” with which, by way of getting the best of a tendency to stutter, Albert was accustomed to preface many of his remarks; “I thought I should find you here,” she added; “and have you seen the lilacs, Albert?”
“Yes; and our bushes are out too,” with an emphatic little nod of the head, as much as to say, that the Queen's lilacs were not specially privileged in that direction.
“Is your sister going to play this morning?” asked Marie-Celeste, with an eagerness on her face that gave place to intense satisfaction as Albert answered, “Yes; she's comin' in a little while;” since to have Miss Allyn at the organ during these visits of hers to the chapel was just the most delightful thing that could possibly happen for Marie-Celeste. “And now let's have a little chat,” said Albert, seating himself on the step, and making room for Marie-Celeste beside him.
“And what shall we talk about?”
“The weather;” for with Albert this topic was always of paramount importance. “And first, I'll see what kind of a day we are going to have;” and suiting the action to the word, he stepped off a little distance to take an observation. He was always the embodiment of dainty freshness, this little four-year-old Albert, and thanks to his mother's preference, boyish percale dresses still kept the Lilliputian trousers of the period at bay. He was a cunning little object as he strode a few feet down the path, his hat on the back of his golden curls, a soft, red silk sash knotted soldier-like at his side, and his hands folded behind him, in evident and precise imitation of some older observer of the elements. His observations, however, were so exceedingly cursory and so impartially comprehensive, including the path at his feet every whit as carefully as the sky above him, that Marie-Celeste had difficulty in preserving proper decorum.
“We are going to have a fine day,” Albert asserted, resuming his seat on the steps, and with the authority of one who knows; and the matter of the weather being thus satisfactorily disposed of, Marie-Celeste made so bold as to introduce another subject; and as it chanced to meet with Albert's approval, they chatted merrily together for ever so long. Meantime, a party of tourists, with Marshall's familiar pink guide-hook open in the hands of one of them, had been surveying the chapel at a distance, and now, after a word or two with the children on the doorstep, made their way within.
“Is Mr. Brooke in the chapel, Albeit?” asked Marie-Celeste.
“Yes,” sighed Albert; for he knew that his answer meant an end to their chat; for whenever during these visits of hers a party of tourists were so fortunate as to secure the services of the verier, Mr. Brooke, Marie-Celeste invariably followed in their train, listening to every word as it fell from the good old man's lips. She already knew many of the monument inscriptions by heart, but that made no difference; for her the old chapel possessed a never-ending fascination, and she rarely crossed the threshold of the choir—which was a beautiful chapel in itself—without an actual thrill of pleasure. So, as Albert had expected, this morning proved no exception, and he was unceremoniously left to communion with his own thoughts upon the doorstep; but it did not prove a long separation. In their tour of the chapel the travellers from across the water had but reached the wonderful cenotaph of the Princess Charlotte, when a sweet single chord from the great organ broke upon the air, as though the player simply wanted to make sure that the instrument would respond when the time came. But in that single chord lay a summons for Marie-Celeste and for Albert; at least, they chose so to regard it, and meeting at the foot of the organ-loft stairway, they climbed it hand-in-hand.
“So here you are!” said a very sweet-looking young lady, turning to greet the children from her seat on the organ-bench. “Seems to me I would have waited for more of an invitation than that, just that one chord.”
“You needn't mind 'bout inwiting us ever, Dorothy,” said Albert, climbing on to a cushioned bench at his sister's side, “'cause we'd tome anyhow, wouldn't we, Marie-Celeste?”
“Yes, Albert, I think we would; but you really don't mind having us, do you, Miss Allyn?”
“No, I really don't,” in imitation of Marie-Celeste's frequent use of the word. “In fact, I rather like to have two such every-day little specimens near me here in this chapel, where so many great people lie buried; and now I shall not say another word, because I want to have a good practice.”
“But you'll—” and then Marie-Celeste thought perhaps she had better not ask it.
“Stop in time for your favorites,” laughed Miss Allyn, finishing the sentence. “Yes, of course I will. Perhaps you'd like them now, you and Albert?”
“No, no, Dorothy,” said Albert firmly; “we want to think they are tomin', and not dat dey're over.” And as Marie-Celeste was evidently of the same mind, that settled the matter. Then for the first time the tone of the organ rang out full and strong; and the visitors in the chapel below looked up with rapt faces to the gallery, as though for them, as for Marie-Celeste, the sweet music seemed to lend the last perfecting touch to the holy enchantment of the place. For over an hour, with scarce an interruption, Miss Allyn played on and on, and Marie-Celeste never stirred from the choirmaster's chair, in which she sat absorbed and entranced. Albert, it must be confessed, had made more than one mysterious sortie down the gallery stairs, as though bent on an important errand which had just occurred to him; but in each case he brought up in rather aimless fashion in some remote corner of the chapel; so it was easy to comprehend that the only real purpose in view was to give his restless little four-year-old self the benefit of a change. He was absent on the third of these little excursions of his, and was surreptitiously amusing his audacious little self by seeing how it seemed to sit in the Oueen's own stall, when hark!—yes, that was going to be “The Roseate Hues,” and with a bound that came near bringing the royal draperies with him he was out of the stall in a trice and fairly scrambling up the organ stairs.
“Bedin aden; it isn't fair; bedin aden, Dorothy, please,” he urged with all the breath hurrying and excitement had left him; and Dorothy, at sight of his anxious, entreating face, resolved to “begin again,” first bringing the interrupted measure to a close with a brief concluding improvisation of her own. Albert understood, and brooked the momentary delay as best he could, but he confided to Marie-Celeste, in highly audible whisper, that he didn't see why Dorothy couldn't stop short off in the middle of a piece if she chose to: he could, anyway—he knew he could.
“Perhaps,” said Marie-Celeste, far wiser than she knew, “you couldn't if you were really a great musician.” And then instantly both children stood still and motionless, for there was the familiar melody again.
“De roseate hoos of early dawn,” hummed Albert in a cunning, to-himself sort of way,
De biteness of de day,
De kimson of de sunset sky,
How fast dey fade away,”
and then the same verse through again and still again, as Dorothy was good enough to repeat the brief, sweet strain for his special delectation. It is doubtful if Albert appreciated the pathos of the lines. It was the rose hue of the sunrise and the crimson of the sunset, wedded to the lovely melody of the refrain, that brought such rapture of delight to his color-loving soul.
And now it was Marie-Celeste's turn, and the martial strain of “The Son of God goes forth to war” woke the old chapel echoes. Three times, as for Albert, the air was played effectively through, and then Miss Allyn slipped down from the organ-bench and into the nearest chair.
“I wish I had strength just once,” she said, “to play as long as I should like to.”
“Then you'd never stop, Dorothy, not even at the ends,” said
Albert, looking comically doleful at the mere prospect of such an undesirable state of affairs.
“I remember Mr. Belden told me on the steamer,” said Marie-Celeste, with the air of one who settles down for a good talk with a familiar friend, “of some musician who heard some one strike two or three chords and then suddenly stop, and after that he; could not get a wink of sleep till he jumped out of bed and rushed to his piano and struck the chord that belonged at the end of the others.”
“Yes; that was Handel, I think,” said Miss Allyn.
“Handel!” repeated Marie-Celeste; “I want to remember that name and everything else besides, if I can, that Mr. Belden told me.”
“Who was this Mr. Belden, Marie-Celeste?”
“Oh, he was the queerest English gentleman—an English gentleman that I met on the steamer. I don't think many people liked him—he said himself they didn't, anyway; but I liked him, and we grew to be great friends, and we had a long chat together almost every day.”
“What about?” asked Albert eagerly, since chats were just in his line.
“Oh, often about books, and a great deal about the castle here, for he seemed to know all about it. Besides, he was reading a book called 'Royal Windsor,' and that was how I came to know him, because I knocked it out of his hands accidentally, and then I had to ask him to excuse me, and that's the way we commenced to be friends. After that he told me a great deal about what he had been reading. And did you ever hear, Albert, about a little French girl who was made Queen of England, and came to live in the castle when she was only eight years old, and who used to come to this very chapel?”
“No, never,” with eyes as big as saucers.
“Well, some day, Albert, I'll tell you all about her, and some other things that happened right here in St. George's. You know, about her, don't you, Miss Allyn?”
“Yes, a little—Madame La Petite Reine, I believe they called her; but tell me more, Marie-Celeste, about your steamer friend. He must, as you say, have been a queer sort of a person to tell you people didn't like him.”
“I guess it was true, though. He seemed kind of a selfish man, and looked so cross until you came to know him, that I was really very much frightened the day I knocked the book out of his hand. He isn't ever very well, and he has to keep travelling about for his health. I think that's one reason he looks cross; but he's very handsome, and papa says very aristocratic.”
“I would radcr hear about de little Queen,” remarked Albert demurely.
“Hush, dear!” said Dorothy; “I want to hear more about this Mr. ——— did you say his name was Belden, Marie-Celeste? Are you sure it was Belden?”
“Yes, sure; I have it at home in the printed list of passengers. And another queer thing about him”—for there was real pleasure in enlarging on a subject in which her listener took such undisguised interest—“was that he told me one day that he had too much money. That was funny, wasn't it? And he said he thought life was very stupid. He just seemed all out of sorts with everything, and I got him to read the 'Story of a Short Life;' I thought it would do him good, and I'm sure it did.”
“I don't know about that story, either,” said Albert aggressively, and as though such constant allusion to very interesting things was really more than could be patiently endured; but he found to his sorrow that his gentle protest seemed to make no impression whatsoever.
“I fancy it was Mr. Belden, too,” continued Marie-Celeste, as though wholly unconscious of any interruption, “who asked them to sing 'The Son of God goes forth to war' at the service in the saloon Sunday morning. I think anybody who reads the 'Story of a Short Life' must love that hymn, don't you? That's the reason I'm fond of it. Whenever I hear it I seem to see the soldiers in the church at Asholt and the V.C. out on the door-step, singing the beautiful words loud and clear, so that dear little Leonard would hear; and then the hand pulling down the curtain at the barrack master's window, so that the V.C. knew at once that the little fellow had gone to heaven at last.”
“Yes, it's a beautiful story,” said Miss Allyn thoughtfully. But meantime, matters had reached a climax in little Albert's heaving breast. If nothing was to be explained, there was no use staying any longer, and he summarily took his departure; and but for his childish reverence for the sacred place would doubtless have stamped his indignant way down the steps of the spiral stairway. Miss Allyn smiled significantly and rose to follow.
“From all you have told me, Marie-Celeste, your friend might well be Theodore's uncle,” said Miss Allyn, as they made their way down the stairs; “he and Harold have an uncle—their mother's brother—a Mr. Harold Selden, who was very much the sort of man you describe.”
“Oh, no; I'm sure that couldn't be, Miss Allyn! Because I talked about Harold often, so that he would have known and told me, and he would have told me, too, if his name had not been Bel-den, you know.”
Miss Allyn was not so sure of that; but Albert was mounting the wall of the terrace, to which he had led the way, in rather dangerous fashion, and Miss Allyn hurrying to lift the little fellow to a safer level, the conversation ended abruptly.
“Isn't it beautiful!” she said, as Marie-Celeste joined her, at the same time lending a hand toward a less ambitious bit of climbing with which Albert was fain to content himself.
Marie-Celeste looked away over the tops of the fine old trees that just reach to the terraces from the steep decline of the slopes below, way to the lovely meadows, and then turned to look up at the castle, leaning comfortably against the wall at her back.
“Yes,” she said seriously; “I can't find any words for it all”—her face fairly aglow with enthusiasm as she spoke—“everything is so perfectly lovely: the views, and the towers, and the castle itself, and the chapels, and the wonderful Long Walk, so that it seems as though I was just dreaming it all, even to the little room Harold has fitted up so beautifully for me.”
“I was sure it would look very prettily when it was finished,” said Miss Allyn complacently. “Why, did you see it?”
“Why, of course I did! Hasn't Harold told you that I selected the curtains, and the valance, and the hangings, and went with him to buy the set for the toilette-table?”
“Oh, yes, of course he did. I don't know what I was thinking of. You used to know Aunt Grace very well, didn't you?”
“Yes; and loved her with all my heart; and I used to spend a great deal of time at the dear Little Castle.”
“Do you know much about Ted, Miss Allyn?”
“No, not much, dear—not nowadays; but why do you ask?”
“Oh, because—well, I suppose I ought not to say it, but we're awfully disappointed in Ted. He wasn't ever half so nice as Harold, was he?”
“Oh, yes, he was—just as nice every bit; though we English people think that word nice of yours is so very queer. You have heard, haven't you”—for Miss Aliyn was quite willing to change the subject—“of the Englishman who said to a young girl whom he met on the steamer, 'You Americans use nice so much, I think it's a nasty word;' and of how she turned and archly said, 'And do you think nasty is a nice word?'”
“Dood for her,” said Albert, thankful that the conversation had once more grown intelligible.
“But nobody thinks Ted is so nice now, do they?” for Marie-Celeste preferred to keep to the main point.
“No, I'm afraid not; but they would if he would let them, I'm sure, for he had the makings of a splendid fellow in him.”
“He used to be Dorothy's best friend, didn't he, Dorothy?”
“Yes, he did, Albert, and I miss him very much. He and Harry are great friends still. Harry's my big brother, Marie-Celeste.”
“Why doesn't he tom to see us now, Dorothy?” Albert questioned.
“He's tired of us, perhaps;” and Marie-Celeste, looking up at Miss Allyn's sweet face, wondered how that could be, and then asked very seriously, “Do you know what has changed him, Miss Aliyn?”
“Oh, yes, it is easy enough to tell: Oxford and popularity and more money than is good for him, like your friend, Mr. Belden. It takes pretty strong stuff to withstand that combination.”
“Well, I know one thing,” said Marie-Celeste, “and that is that he isn't at all nice to Harold, and that he comes home very seldom, and is very high and mighty when he does come.”
“High and mighty?” queried Albert, with a whimsical little smile. “That must be a funny way to be;” and then Miss Allyn, more impressed than ever with the doubtful propriety of discussing Mr. Theodore Harris's shortcomings under existing conditions, looked at her watch, and discovering it was time to go home, asked Marie-Celeste to come with them to luncheon.
“No, not to-day, thank you. Mamma will be sending to look me up if I don't hurry home myself. So, good-bye; good-bye, Albert (with a kiss, which the fast-maturing, little fellow was half inclined to resent), and thank you ever so much for the music. Shall you play on Thursday, Miss Allyn?”
“Yes; at this same time, probably.”
“Then I shall surely come.”
“So s'all I,” chimed in a little voice with even firmer determination.