In the hour that intervened between Donald's arrival and supper he had had a chat with Mr. Hartley, in which the old keeper had taken to the boy immensely; had made friends with Martha, as she showed him to the little room under the eaves and helped him to stow away the contents of his sailor chest, and had won his way straight to Mrs. Hartley's heart, who was but a woman, after all, and gratified by the undisguised admiration in his frank, honest eyes. There remained only one inmate of the cottage yet to be encountered—the gentleman about whom Chris had told him, and who had met with the driving accident a few weeks back; but the gentleman in question bad his own ideas as to the time and place when that dreaded encounter was to be gotten through with, and Donald was not to be favored with an interview that evening.
“If it's not too much bother, Mrs. Hartley,” Ted had said, “I'll have my supper here in my room to-night. I think for a first drive Harry took me a little too far this afternoon.”
“I was afraid of that—afraid of that,” said Mrs. Hartley, looking at Ted with the deepest solicitude, so that Ted felt like a fraud, for though tired indeed from the drive, he had quite strength enough to take his seat at the table with the rest but for the presence of that new and undesired guest, Donald.
“Your sailor-boy arrived all right?” asked Ted, partly by way of diverting conversation from himself and partly because there was the possibility of meeting him to be provided against.
“Yes, indeed,” her face lighting up as she spoke; “and he seems the most attractive little fellow. I want you should meet him after—”
“Not to-night, I think, Mrs. Hartley, if you don't mind. I'll just see Harry a few moments when he comes and turn in very early. The little sailor-boy will keep all right till morning, won't he?'”
Deeply annoyed that Ted's strength should have been so apparently overtaxed, Mrs. Hartley paid no attention to this last remark.
“I shall take Mr. Allyn to task when he comes to-night,” she said severely (that is, for her); “he should have known better; but if I leave you now perhaps you'll get a good sleep before ever it's time for your supper;” and then as she went out Ted drew a long sigh, and had half a mind to call the dear old lady back and take her right into his confidence. But no; on the whole, he thought he would wait and once more consult Harry, and, besides, he was really too tired to enter upon any explanations just then.
“Why, where's Ted?” asked Harry Allyn with real concern, as at his usual hour he brought up at the doorway of the little cottage and peered into the room beyond. The evening meal over, the old couple were seated on the settle just outside the door, and Mrs. Hartley made room for Harry between them.
“You've quite used Mr. Morris up!” she said reprovingly; “you ought not to have gone so far; all these weeks of nursing ought to have taught you better than that, Mr. Allyn.”
“Why, Mrs. Hartley!” for from any one so mild this was indeed censure. “Really I think you are a little hard on me. It was Ted's own fault. I wanted to turn back two or three times, and Ted wouldn't hear of it.”
“You should have turned, all the same. Invalids never know what is best for them.”
“Well, how used up is he?” asked Harry with a sigh, more concerned at the thought of harm done to Ted even than at Mrs. Hartley's disapproval. “It is an awful pity if he's going to have a regular set-back.”
“Oh, it's not so bad as that, I fancy;” for sooner or later, Mrs. Hartley always felt self-reproachful, no matter how justly she had taken any one to task; “but Mr. Morris wants to see you for a few moments, so you can go in and judge for yourself.”
“So, you're a wreck,” said Harry, entering Ted's room and closing the door gently after him.
“Well, I'm pretty tired, but I'm here for a reason, you know.”
“Oh!” evidently relieved; “I thought possibly that was it; you didn't get any chance, then, to have a word with Donald?”
“No; there didn't seem to be any way to manage, so I just kept my room. Some day soon I'm going to tell them here all about myself, but I want to do it in my own time and way, and not seem pushed to it because of Donald's coming, and as though I only told because I thought I couldn't keep them longer from knowing.”
“Look here, Ted, I'll manage this thing for you,” said Harry, after a few moments' silence. “I'll drop in to breakfast in the morning, and I'll contrive somehow to get the boy in here for a word with you as soon as he shows his face below stairs.”
“Agreed,” answered Ted.
“Well, then, good-night, and do you get a good rest, so that Mrs. Hartley will not think me wholly unfit in future to act as guardian on your drives.”
True to his word, bright and early the next morning Harry unbolted the outer door of the inn at Nuneham, where no one was yet stirring, and started for his two-mile walk to the Hartleys'. It was a glorious July morning, the air clear as a bell, and a bird here and there carolling with all the abandon of June in the hedgerows.
One after the other he passed the typical little English farms that skirt the roadway, seeming in their trim perfection and miniature proportions more like toys to unaccustomed eyes.
It was only half-past six by the time he reached the Hartleys', and Donald, as good fortune would have it, had just come downstairs and was standing right in the doorway. Donald, who had been absent on a tour of the farm with Chris when Harry was at the house the night before, at once surmised who the new-comer was, but gazed in blank amazement, none the less, as Harry, calling him by name, commanded him rather imperatively to stay just where he was for a moment. Then opening Ted's door, Harry said in a loud whisper:
“He's just outside here, and there's no one else within gun-shot; shall I bring him in?”
“Yes,” sighed Ted, since the thing was inevitable.
No sooner said than done. Donald found himself in the stranger's room and with his face aflame with the strangeness and suddenness of the manner of his introduction. But behold! he was no stranger. In bed though Ted was, and pale and white from his illness, one glance was sufficient, and Donald stood transfixed, his hands on his hips in sailor fashion and absolutely speechless.
“You know me, Donald?” said Ted, raising himself on one elbow.
“Yes, sir,” getting the words out with difficulty; “you're Mr. ———”
“Yes, but stop right where you are, for you're not to mention here who I am. Do you think you can keep a secret?”
“If I choose I can for this was a very queer proceeding, and he was not going to be led blindfold.
“Well, then, will you please be good enough to choose to keep it till matters can be explained to you?”
“When will that be?” in a business-like way that was rather amusing.
“Till we can go for a walk after breakfast, and I can enlighten you,” said Harry.
“And you mean that now, just for a little while, I am not to let the Hartleys know that we've met before?” but as though he did not in the least take to the idea.
“Exactly,” said Ted.
“Well, of course I can't refuse to do that much; but up at Windsor, you know, they think you are off on a driving trip, and are wondering that you don't write.”
“There's nothing to wonder at in that,” Ted answered a little sadly; “Harold knows I've never been in the habit of writing, or of doing some other things, for that matter, that might perhaps have been expected of me.”
“Yes, I know,” was Donald's frank answer; “it's an awful pity.”
“'Nough said, my young friend,” remarked Harry, and fearing what next might follow, marched him out of the room with a “Now be on your guard, young man, and be sure and remember your promise.”
They had spent a most interesting hour at the Royal Mews, and, rare good fortune, the best was yet to come. They means Mr. Harris and Marie-Celeste and Albert, and the Royal Mews—since to the average little American the words doubtless are wholly unintelligible—means the royal stables. Mr. Harris and Marie-Celeste had called by appointment in the phaeton lor Albert, and then leaving the ponies in the care of a groom at the entrance to the stable courtyard, in company with another groom they had visited the royal horses. The place as a whole was rather disappointing to our little party. Harold, who had been all through the stables of the Duke of Westminster at Eton Hall, had described something much finer than this—imposing buildings surrounding a courtyard paved with bevel-edged squares of stone, with not so much as a whisp of hay or straw to be seen anywhere, and in the centre a noble statue of a high-spirited horse, rearing and pulling hard at the bridle, held in the hand of a stalwart groom, who seems fully equal to the occasion. Here there was nothing of the sort, and yet these were the Queen's stables. Ah, well! these were old and the Duke's were new, and perhaps the royal family were trying to avoid extravagance, and that was of course very commendable. But what seemed lacking in elegance of appointment was made up in the number of horses; and happening to enter one of the courtyards just as three of the court carriages were about to be driven out of it, the children were intensely interested. Marie-Celeste opened her eyes wide for wonder at the novel sight of a coach and four, but with no reins anywhere about the harness, and not so much as the suggestion of a scat for the coachman. The mystery of how they were to be driven was solved in a moment, however, when a faultlessly equipped groom threw himself astride of one of the leaders, and the stablemen, standing at the bridles of the four-in-hand, at one and the same moment let go their hold, and sprang quickly out of the way. It was very inspiring and exciting to see the three coaches, that were to convey some royal guests to the depot, leave the courtyard one after the other, the horses in each case prancing in wildest fashion and perfectly free, apparently, with the exception of the one mounted leader, to do any outlandish thing that they chose.
“I don't see that there's anything at all to keep them from running away,” pondered Marie-Celeste gravely, “or how they ever manage them at all.”
“But dey do,” said well-informed Albert; “I've seen dem often. Dat cuttin' up is jus' for fun at de start. Dey're trained to behave jus' of dere own selves without any driver, and when dey get out on de road dey always do behave;” and then in the moment's pause that followed, Marie-Celeste, remembering certain recent performances of her own, wondered if her father wished that a certain little girl, of whom he had some knowledge, more closely resembled these royal ponies, who, once trained to behave, according to Albert, never dreamed of taking the bit in their teeth or of kicking over the traces.
But the best that was yet to come was something of a highly exclusive and highly privileged order—something in which even Mr. Harris could have no part. From the moment that Albert had climbed into the phaeton at his own door he had held a small square envelope firmly in one hand. Mr. Harris had advised him to put it in his pocket or to consign it to him for safer keeping but to no avail. Albert considered the grip of his own right hand the safest place by far for the valuable little square of cardboard, and which was nothing else than the open sesame to the Queen's own garden, called the East Terrace, and to which the general public only occasionally were admitted. Exception, in this instance, had been made for Marie-Celeste and Albert. It had all been managed in some way by Albert's father, Canon Allyn, apropos of Albert's having repeated a remark of Marie-Celeste's, “that she should be happy as a queen herself if just once she could be allowed to walk in that garden.” Whether the powers that rule the entrance to the same came to the conclusion that to a little girl of twelve and a little boy of four the term of general public could not honestly be applied, or whether all rules of procedure and precedence were magnanimously waived in their favor, certain it is that the little card in question bore the incredible inscription: “Admit Master Albert Allyn and his little friend, Miss Marie-Celeste Harris, to the East Terrace between the hours of twelve and three on Thursday. By order of —————”
And this was Thursday, and by Mr. Harris's watch, long ago carefully adjusted to English time, it was precisely five minutes to twelve. The skies were blue above them and a delightful little breeze was blowing out of the west; so that everything was just as it should be when two pairs of eager little feet were to be allowed to tread the paths of the Queen's own garden. And such a garden as it proved! with its fountains and statues and vases, and the orangery on one side, and on the other three sides a beautiful sloping lawn, ascending from the level of the garden to the gray stonewall at the outer edge of the terrace; and to think that here they were actually walking about in this beautiful garden, instead of merely peering through the fretwork of the iron gate, as some other little children with envious eyes were doing that very moment. Marie-Celeste was so impressed with the greatness of the privilege accorded them, that for the first five minutes or so she kept Albert's hand tight in her own, and spoke never a word save a whispered “yes” or “no” to Albert's questions. But to Albert, who had been born beneath the castle walls, it must be confessed royalty was less awe-inspiring, and to walk about hand in hand in that stately fashion and talk in suppressed whispers was not his idea of the way to enjoy the Queen's garden.
Finally he resolved to take matters into his own hands by suddenly slipping away from Marie-Celeste's grasp; and then drawing off a little, and folding both hands behind his back, as though neither of them were to be longer at anybody's disposal, he said aggressively: “And—and now what are you afraid of, Marie-Celeste? Do you sink somebody's goin' to soot you from de top of one of de towers if you speak out loud?”
“Why no, of course not,” with a little nervous laugh; “really, I didn't know I was just whispering; but it seems such a wonderful place to me, as much for what has happened here as for what is here now.”
Albert looked at Marie-Celeste a little whimsically, and then said dryly: “Well, I don' know much about what's happened here, and I s'ouldn't sink jus' an American little girl would know so very much eider.”
“Perhaps not,” said Marie-Celeste, half angry at Albert's insinuation; “but 's'ouldn't sink' or no, I could tell you a good deal if I chose to about one little queen who lived here—”
“Oh, yes, I remember. You did promise to tell me 'bout her some day. Right here, where she used to live, would be a good place, Marie-Celeste.”
“Yes, it would,” but in a tone as though nothing was farther from her thought than the telling of it. She would show this presuming little Albert that “jus' American little girls” were not to be so easily conciliated.
Albert looked crestfallen, but hoped still to win by strategy.
“She was a little French girl, wasn't she?” he asked, quite casually.
“Yes, she was.”
“Do you s'pose she used to play in this garden?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.
“Her name was Isabel, wasn't it?”
“Yes, her name was Isabel.”
“And she was only nine when she was a queen.”
“Only nine.”
Albert gave Marie-Celeste a look which said as plainly as words: “That jus' American little girls could be awful mean,” and evidently deciding it would be best to leave that kind of a girl to herself, turned on his heel and walked straight off toward the castle with a consequential air, and as though bent on reporting such unseemly conduct to Her Majesty in person.
Marie-Celeste looked after him a moment with a most amused smile, and then growing to feel more at home amid royal surroundings, turned to investigate the little miniature elephants that flank the steps leading down from the eastern terrace. Then she wandered on, making a partial circuit of the garden, stopping here and there to gaze at some statue that struck her fancy or to touch with reverend hand the rich carving of the vases, and finally bringing up at the fountain in the centre.
Meantime, what had not that audacious Albert ventured! The rapid and indignant pace at which he had sought to put as much space as possible between the offending Marie-Celeste and himself had brought him in a trice to the foot of the double flight of steps that ascend from the garden to the terrace. And what more natural, when you find yourself at the foot of a flight of steps, than to walk up them, no matter if the place does chance to be Windsor Castle; and then if at the top you find an open door confronting you, what more natural than to walk in, particularly if there happens to be no one to say you nay, and you have half a mind, besides, to seek an audience of the Queen, and report the ungracious conduct of an ungracious little American, who has been unworthily permitted to tread the paths of the royal garden. A few moments later he was bounding down the stone stairway, flying toward Marie-Celeste with the breathless announcement: “She wants us to come in.”
“Who?” screamed Marie-Celeste, half stiff with fright; “not the Queen?”
“No,” called Albert, who was not to be delayed by explanations, and was already half-way back to the steps again; “the Queen's mother.”
“The Queen's mother!” thought Marie-Celeste; “she must be very old.” But this was time for action rather than thought.
“Please wait for me, Albert;” for Albert had scaled the stairs, and in another second would be out of sight; and for a wonder, Albert waited—touched, perhaps, by the entreaty in her voice, and perceptibly enjoying the turn of affairs that left him master of the situation.
“Did the Queen's mother come out and ask you to come in?” whispered Marie-Celeste, detaining Albert by main force, while she straightened his necktie and gave his hopelessly frowsy curls a rearranging touch.
“No, I went in and asked her to tome out; nes I did, really,” in refutation of the astonished incredulity on Marie-Celeste's face.
“The door was open, an' I jus' walked in, an' I dess dey sought I was jus' a little prince or somethin', cause nobody said anythin' to me till I tame to the room where de Queen's mother was; an' I asked her wouldn't she tome out in de garden an' see you; an' she said no, she did not feel able to walk very much, but for me to go an' bring my little friend in.”
And nothing could, by any possibility, have been more patronizing than the tone in which Albert uttered the words “my little friend.” And this was all the light that was ever thrown on Albert's unsolicited entree into Windsor Castle. If he met with a rebuff from any quarter or had to push his way in the face of any difficulties, he has never owned up to them.
Be that as it may, a very sweet-faced lady met them at the door as they entered, and saying reassuringly, “Come this way, children,” led them through a corridor resplendent with statues and portraits, and thence by a wide folding-door into a large room, with windows looking out over the Long Walk and away to the grand old Windsor Forest.
Albert, who had already become familiar with the appointments of this apartment, stepped at once to the table, near which an elderly lady was sitting, and laying his sailor-hat, nothing loath, atop of a miniature of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, announced cavalierly, “And—and now, this is my little American friend, Marie-Celeste.”
“How do you do, dear?” said the lady, extending her hand, which Marie-Celeste, her cheeks aflame with the unexpected abruptness of Albert's introduction, took in hers, in a pretty deferential sort of way, as though fully conscious of the dignity of her surroundings. Albert, on the other hand, apparently as much at home in the Queen's private sitting-room as anywhere else in the world, had worked himself way back into a deep-seated, gilded armchair, so that his dusty little feet stuck straight out into the air before him. Meanwhile, the sweet-faced lady had drawn a little tête-a-tète sofa nearer the table, and invited Marie-Celeste to take a seat beside her, and then there followed a few general remarks as to the warmth of the weather and the beauty of the garden, etc., while Marie-Celeste gazed in unconcealed admiration at everything about her.
“It is very beautiful,” she said in the first pause of the conversation, “to be allowed to see the inside of this part of the castle, but I am afraid it was very rude in Albert to walk right in the way he did.”
“Very rude?” Indeed! Albert's eyes flashed, and there is no telling what rejoinder he might have made but that the sweet-faced lady gave him no opportunity.
“Oh, that's all right,” she said cordially; “Albert told us he was Canon Allyn's little boy, and that made us very glad to see him, for the Queen has a very high regard for Canon Allyn; and then when he told us he thought you would like to come in too, the Queen sent for you.”
“That was very kind of the Queen,” said Marie-Celeste gratefully, while Albert looked mystified, for he was not at all aware of the Queen's having had any part in the transaction; but he thought it was a good time to gain a little useful information.
“I suppose de Queen is always very busy,” he said, addressing the young lady, “and never has any time jus'—jus' to sit around like dis?”
The young lady hesitated a moment before she answered, and glanced toward the Queen, for the elderly lady was none other, if you please, than Victoria herself, though it never entered the children's heads for one moment to suspect it. A Queen in black silk and a lace cap! Why, the thing was simply incredible. Albert had not passed the statue on Castle Hill almost every day since he learned to walk for nothing.
He guessed he knew how a queen ought to look in her robes of velvet and ermine, and with characteristic self-sufficiency had at once settled it in his venturesome little mind that this was the Queen's mother; and Marie-Celeste, presuming he knew whereof he spoke, simply took him at his word. And so both the children almost at once betraying their utter unconsciousness of the Queen's presence, the Queen and her companion were naturally greatly amused, and by an interchange of glances decided not to enlighten their unsuspecting little visitors.
“Her Majesty,” said Miss Belmore, the lady-in-waiting, after hesitating a moment, not knowing how to answer, “has of course many things to occupy her mind, but still she often spends a quiet hour or so in this very room.”
“Oh, does she?” for this fact at once added a new lustre to everything for Marie-Celeste; “where does she generally sit?”
“Generally where I am sitting,” answered the Queen.
“And—and I know jus' how she looks sitting dere,” said Albert; “she has a beautiful crown on her head and a long kind of veil coming down from de crown, and a kind of gold stick in her hand dat papa says is called a—a—”
“Sceptre,” suggested Marie-Celeste, coming to the rescue; “and then she wears”—for Marie-Celeste had studied the statue too—“a beautiful broad ribbon coming from one shoulder, crosswise this way to her belt, doesn't she?”
“Yes, sometimes,” said Miss Belmore.
“And on it she wears the badge of the Order of the Garter, doesn't she?”
“Yes, that is right, too; but what do two little people like you know about the Order of the Garter?”
“We know all dere is,” said Albert grandly; “we had a Knight-of-the-Garter day las' week;” and then recalling the matter of the foolish little garter, his face grew crimson, and he begged Marie-Celeste not to tell.
“What do you mean by a Knight-of-the-Garter day?” said the Queen, smiling at Albert's embarrassment and keenly enjoying the novelty of the situation.
“Why, it was a day,” Marie-Celeste explained, “when we came to the castle here and went into the different rooms and then into St. George's Chapel, and Harold Harris, my cousin, who lives here, and who has read up a great deal about the knights, told us all he knew about them. But there is one thing,” added Marie-Celeste, changing the subject, because unwilling that so important an occasion should be to any extent devoted to any mere narrating of their own childish doings, “I would very much like to know, and that is, if Victoria is ever called Madame La Grande Reine?”
“Why no, my dear, I don't know that she is,” said Her Majesty; “but what a little French woman you seem to be.” At this Albert rudely clapped one little hand over his mouth, as though to keep from laughing outright. Marie-Celeste a little French woman! Why he didn't believe she knew more than a dozen French words to her name.
“But why do you ask if she is ever called by that title?” continued the Queen.
“Oh, because on the steamer coming over I learned all about the Queen whom they used to call Madame La Petite Reine.”
“What are you saying, Marie-Celeste?” said Albert impetuously; “I don't understan' you at all;” for not for one single moment was this conversation in the Queen's own sitting-room to rise above the level of his comprehension, if it lay in his power to prevent it.
“I am talking about the little French Queen, Isabel.”
“Oh!” greatly relieved that the matter could be so easily explained; and then he added, turning beseechingly to Her Majesty, “Won't you please make her tell it? Se always says se knows a great deal about her, but se never tells what se knows.”
It was Marie-Celeste's turn to color up now, and she looked at Albert, considering for a moment in what way she should proceed to annihilate him, when Her Majesty happily put to rout all such revengeful intentions. “I should love to talk with you about the little Isabel,” she said, “for I know all about her too, and there are some things here in the castle that used to belong to her that I should be glad to have you see. It seems to me you two little people will have to remain to luncheon, and afterward we will have a good talk about the little French Isabel.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Marie-Celeste, “but I don't believe we can,” the idea of actually sitting down to the royal table being almost too overpowering.
“Oh, nes we can, too,” said Albert, “if you sink the Queen won't mind.”
“On the contrary,” said Her Majesty, with difficulty concealing her amusement, “I am confident she will be most glad to have you entertained at the castle; and now, Miss Belmore, will you summon Ainslee, that she may show our little friends through the private apartments?”
Ainslee proved to be a motherly-looking, middle-aged woman with a bunch of keys hanging from her ample girdle. After she had received a word or two of direction from Miss Belmore, the children set off under her guidance, with unconcealed delight on their faces at the prospect of seeing with their own eyes these mysterious apartments, and with a deep-seated hope in each quick-beating heart that in all the full regalia of crown and sceptre and ermine they might somewhere encounter the marvellous Queen.
Meantime, imagine the astonishment of the inmates of the Little Castle to have a finely mounted groom, in the royal livery of the big Castle, ride up to their door, and with that indescribable condescension inherent in even the most ordinary of grooms, hand in a communication, which on being opened imparted the rather astounding information “That Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, having accidentally made the acquaintance of the little visitors to the East Terrace, had invited them to remain for luncheon at the Castle, and would see that they reached home safely under proper escort later in the afternoon.” The note also mentioned that similar word had been sent by special messenger to Canon Allyn.
“Gad, but they're lucky!” said Harold: and then he sent for his pony and started off for a long gallop, hoping thereby to get the better of certain absurdly jealous feelings that would not down at his bidding.
Oh, the wonder, for Marie-Celeste, of that tour through the private apartments! As for Albert, it is to be doubted if he quite rose to the occasion. Nothing could be more awe-inspiring or majestic than the picture of the Queen he had formed in his mind; but as they were shown from room to room and failed to encounter her, his interest began to flag a little. There were apartments more grand than these, with which he was already familiar, in the other part of the Castle; and when Ainslee hurried them past two or three rooms with the explanation that some of the royal family were in them, he felt some-the very object of their of them, and he thought Ainslee might at least have told them which one, even though they were not to be permitted to have a sight of her. But with Marie-Celeste it was very different, She stood in worshipful admiration before all the royal belongings, and when permitted to gaze into one or two of the bedrooms where royalty actually put itself to bed, behind beautiful embroidered draperies, her sense of the privilege accorded her fairly made her hold her breath. At last, when Ainslee announced that they had made the tour of all the private apartments, they were ushered into a little boudoir where a maid waited in readiness to assist them in making their toilettes for luncheon. The maid, however, standing stiff and straight, with a towel thrown over her arm and a whisk-broom in hand ready to attack them, looked so very formidable that Marie-Celeste begged Ainslee not to leave them; and Ainslee, herself appreciating the overbearing self-importance of the maid Babette, was good enough to accede to her request. And then followed such a freshening of toilette as was fairly humiliating in its thoroughness. The trying feature of the proceeding lay in the fact that they were in no way taken into the confidence of the party officiating, or told what move was impending. Side by side they were thrust on to a little low seat, and their shoes and pumps being quickly removed, were consigned to the keeping of a condescending boots, who, summoned by the touch of an electric bell, carried them away at arm's length. Marie-Celeste was never more thankful in her life than that every button was on, and that Albert's little patent leathers were just as good as new; in fact, that nothing could be urged against those little articles of foot-wear save the grievous offence of dust from the royal garden. Their faces and hands were scrubbed with wholly unnecessary vigor, and in Albert's case even ears, and then both children were thrust on to the little low seat again, and drawing a stool in front of them, Babette laid an elaborate manicure set open upon her lap, and gave her whole mind to the shaping and polishing of their nails—a process in which Albert took great interest, and which was accomplished, it must be confessed, most dexterously and with great expedition.
“You have beautiful nails, child,” said Babette, the instant she took Marie-Celeste's extended hands in hers; and this compliment from so high and experienced an authority made Marie-Celeste at once feel repaid for all the dainty care her mother had always insisted upon. At last the little toilettes were completed, even to the reformation of Albert's curls around an ivory curling stick; and with embroidered dress and well-starched kilt none the worse for the decorous experiences of the morning, they emerged from the little boudoir as “spick and span” as from the depths of the traditional bandbox. Luncheon being served, they found a most imposing butler awaiting them in the hallway, and therefore were obliged, but with evident reluctance, to turn their backs on Ainslee. When they reached the dining-room, Miss Belmore was already seated at the table, ready to receive them; but as places were set for only three, two little hearts were again doomed to disappointment, for two little minds, without any sort of consultation, had separately arrived at the conclusion that all that elaborate preparation could certainly mean nothing less than luncheon with Her Majesty in person. Otherwise it is to be doubted if they would have put up half so civilly with the uncompromising treatment they had received at Babette's hands. Their disappointment, however, could not long hold out against the odds of their immediate surroundings. The butlers—for there were two of them—could not have seemed more anxious to please or more obsequious to a veritable little prince and princess; the luncheon was delicious, and no one could possibly have been more kind and friendly than Miss Bel-more. Therefore it happened that to their own surprise they became almost at once at their ease, and Albert chattered away in such a cunning, irresistible fashion that the royal dining-room rang with the merriest peals of laughter.
“And—and now,” said Albert, when the luncheon at last was concluded, and having clearly in mind the talk about the little Queen that was to follow, “where sail we find de old lady?”
“We shall find her in the sitting-room, Albert,” said Miss Bel-more, her kind gray eyes dancing with the amusement which she was making such an effort to conceal. So it was quite plain that these little uninvited visitors to Windsor Castle were mistaking Her Majesty for Her Majesty's mother! She wondered for the moment if she ought not to tell them of their absurd mistake; and yet no—she hardly had the right to do that either; for had not a little conference with Her Majesty resulted in the conclusion that they would not disillusionize their little guests if they could help it? If possible they should leave the Castle as they entered it—the Queen of England still the dream-queen of their imagination, regal and stately always, and perennially arrayed in crown, ermine and jewels, and all the royal insignia of her office. They, at any rate, would not be the ones to acquaint them with the fact that even queens sometimes grow to be grandmothers, taking more comfort in rocking-chairs than thrones, vastly preferring lace caps to crowns, and behaving in general like other dear grandmothers the world over. And, in the mean time, what a pleasure to talk familiarly with these same bright little visitors, who more likely than not would have retired into speechless embarrassment had anyone ventured the announcement that the great Queen of England was none other than the friendly “old lady” with whom they were taking all the liberties of commonplace, every-day acquaintance! And so, happily, no doubt, for their ease of mind, no one felt called upon to make the announcement.
“Have you been here ever since?” asked Albert, the moment they reached the sitting-room and descried the Queen in the same chair in which they had left her.
“Ever since,” answered Her Majesty.
“And haven't you had any luncheon?” in a tone of real concern, and going close to her side, so that he leaned against her knee.
“Oh, yes, I have had my luncheon served right here, to save me the trouble of moving; and now I am ready and waiting to have our talk about little Isabel de Valois.”
“Did these belong to her?” asked Marie-Celeste, standing in open-eyed wonder before a mosaic table, which had been cleared to make room for a quaint collection of foreign-looking, childish possessions—a mandolin, a well-worn little missal, a remarkable doll, a necklace or two, numerous little childish trinkets, and thrown over a chair, standing close to the table, a little gown of white silk and exquisite embroidery, yellow and limp with age, but none the less dainty and lovely.
“Yes, all of them,” answered the Queen, keenly enjoying the child's undisguised pleasure.
Albert, who preferred that everything should be done decently and in order, placed a chair for Marie-Celeste on the other side of the Queen's little table, and then seated himself on the gilded sofa beside Miss Belmore, in such a comfortable, snuggling-up way that Miss Belmore had to put one arm right round him and give him a sound little kiss by way of punishment, which Albert was courteous enough not to resent, notwithstanding he considered that sort of treatment somewhat humiliating for a boy of four.
“Now tome, please, Marie-Celeste,” he pleaded; “let's hear about de tings before we look at dem and Marie-Celeste, feeling that they were all waiting for her, reluctantly did as she was bid, and dropped into the chair Albert had placed for her.
“And now,” said Albert modestly, considering himself master of ceremonies, “please have Marie-Celeste tell what she knows first,” for the suspicious little reprobate was keenly anxious to put her boasted knowledge to the test.
“Yes, I should love to hear the story as she has heard it,” answered the Queen. “Will you tell it to us, Marie-Celeste?” And Marie-Celeste, nothing loath, and willing at last to substantiate her claims in the ears of doubting Albert, rested a hand comfortably on either arm of her chair, and commenced, preceding her narration with the request, “You will correct me, won't you, if you find I do not tell it right?” to which Her Majesty smilingly acceded, first asking Miss Belmore to hand her a little jewelled miniature case from among the other treasures on the table.
“Well, this little queen,” began Marie-Celeste, “was the child of a French king, and she was born in the Louvre, the King's palace in Paris, and she was born in a very troubled time—such a troubled time, that her father, the King, went crazy; and then the little Isabel spent most of her time in the Hotel de St. Pol, on the Seine, that belonged to one of her father's ambassadors.”
“I wonder that you remember such a queer name as St. Pol and such a long word as ambassadors,” said Miss Belmore incredulously.
“Oh, I have tried very hard to remember all the names, because you can't tell the story very clearly without them. Besides, I wrote them all down in my journal one day on the steamer, and because I was coming here to Windsor to-day, I read them over only last night.”
“You haven't tol' us de name of de king den,” said Albert.
“The king was Charles the Sixth of France,” explained the Queen, who was not going to have her little story-teller disconcerted if she could help it; but Marie-Celeste confessed with perfect honesty, “I am afraid I had forgotten that name;” and Albert felt ashamed of himself, and confided in a whisper to Miss Belmore “dat he dessed he wouldn't be so mean aden.”
“Well,” continued Marie-Celeste, pausing thoughtfully a moment to think out the order of the story, “at that time and all the time in those days there was war between France and England, and the French wanted to have peace; and so the ambassador, St. Pol, who had married the sister of King Richard in England, went to Richard and told him if he would sign a truce with France Charles would give him his daughter Isabel for his queen, and with a larger dowry than was ever given to a royal bride.” (Albert was becoming too deeply impressed with the extent of Marie-Celeste's knowledge to venture the question as to what a dowry might be.) “And King Richard agreed to that; but it must just have been because he thought it would be a wise thing to do, for Isabel was only eight years old, and it would be so many years before she could really reign as a queen at all. But that's the way with kings and queens; they always have to do the things that's wise, no matter how they may feel about it, don't they?” for Marie-Celeste, to whom even the motives of royal conduct were of deepest interest, felt one could hardly ask for a more reliable source of information than the Queen's own mother.
“It is certainly true,” said Her Majesty a little gravely, “that the rulers of a great country like England have often to set aside their own preferences; but these are better times than those in which the little Isabel lived, and the idea of a king marrying a little girl of eight, no matter for what reason, would hardly be tolerated now, you know.”
“Oh, is that so?” with a look of real surprise, for Marie-Celeste's idea of royalty had come to her largely through her knowledge of the little Isabel; and her childish mind did not readily lend itself to the thought that royalty, as well as everything else in the world, was subject to change and possible improvement. Indeed, she did not care to realize anything of the sort, choosing, rather, to think of the Windsor of Isabel's time as much the same as the Windsor of Victoria's, and she would have been not a little grieved and surprised had any one insisted on pointing out to her in how many, many ways the old differed from the new.