The pictures themselves were as funny as could be, and the Harry Allyn of those days was wonderfully like the Albert Allyn of these; so that a council was held on the spot, and the resolution carried that they would leave a little note on Mr. Carroll's table, humbly begging for one of the pictures, that they might have the pleasure of showing them to interested parties at Windsor.
The inspection of the photographs once over, the little party settled themselves to “taking the little sitting-room in,” as they said, and there was little, you may be sure, that escaped them.
The curious old fire-irons were noted, the subjects of the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, and a remarkable paper-knife and quaint old inkstand upon the table.
Marie-Celeste, to whom this visit meant more than to Harold and Dorothy, even made so bold as to glance through an intervening portière to the bachelor bedroom beyond; and yet you must know that there was not a vestige of prying curiosity in this investigating mood of hers. The next thing, and sometimes a better thing than knowing your favorite author, is to know how and where he lives; and it was a matter of supreme delight to Marie-Celeste that henceforth when she should open Lewis Carroll's books she should be able to picture him working away here in his study, and just as he really looked, too, for by chance or accidents full-length photograph stood on the mantel, which Dorothy, from her visita few years before, was able to pronounce an excellent likeness, and very characteristic.
“I would like to be able to say I had sat exactly where 'Alice' was written,” said Marie-Celeste, slipping into the chair at the writing-table. “Do you think I could honestly?”
“Well, both table and chair look old enough,” Dorothy considerately replied; “but I don't believe books like those are written much in regular places at all. It seems as though 'Alice' must at least have been made up out on the river, even if there were not three little pairs of childish hands to steer and guide the boat, as the verses at the beginning would have us believe.”
“Oh, but I do believe there were, Miss Dorothy!” said Marie-Celeste warmly; “don't you remember it says,
”' All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide,
For both our oars with little skill
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.'”
And then in another verse in just so many words, 'Thus grew the tale of Wonderland.' Oh, yes, I choose to believe everything in those two books.”
“Well, I don't blame you,” laughed Dorothy, “for everything is told as a matter of course, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for a rabbit to carry white gloves, and for little girls to seek advice of caterpillars.”
“Well, the parts I used to like best were the verses;” for Harold, after the manner of the genus who pride themselves on early outgrowing many of the best things of life, relegated the books to the days of his early childhood; “the stories themselves always seemed more meant for girls than for boys.”
“Now, excuse me, Harold,” said Marie-Celeste, bristling up a little, “but I don't see why you boys are so afraid of peeping into what you call a girl's book. Of course there are books that tell only about girls that you wouldn't like. To tell the truth, I don't care much for them myself; but if a book ever happens to have a kind of girlish name to it, that settles it at once. Now, suppose it were possible for any one to write a story about me; I presume they would have to give a sort of girl's name to the story; but would that mean that it was all about girls? Well, I guess not;” and Marie-Celeste laughed as she realized how wide such an estimate would fall of the mark. “Chris would be in it, of course, and you and Donald and—” and Marie-Celeste was going to say Ted, but checked herself in time to make an exchange for Mr. Belden—“and Albert. Why, gracious, Harold, come to think of it, I haven't a girl friend this summer—only Miss Dorothy here, if she will excuse me.”
“And it's a pity about me, isn't it, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy slyly, “for the author might feel that as I am your friend he ought to put mein somewhere, and that would make it a little more about girls, you see, and probably spoil the story.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, you know what I mean; it isn't that I don't like girls, it's only that a book like 'Alice' ought to have just as much interest for boys as girls;” for all Marie-Celeste had in mind was the defence of the imputation that Lewis Carroll's books were “just girls' books.”
“If all the remarkable things in those two stories,” she continued, “had happened to a 'Jack' instead of an 'Alice,' I should have loved it just as much, I am sure.”
“Oh, well, you needn't be quite so hard on me,” Harold replied, improving the first opportunity to put in a word, and very much amused at Marie-Celeste's little tirade. “I fancy, on the whole, you don't know much more about 'Alice's' adventures than I do.”
This last remark Marie-Celeste chose to regard as a challenge, and then followed such a rehearsal of Alice's varied experiences as would have done Lewis Carroll's heart good to hear. Both eager to show how much they remembered, the moment either paused for the fraction of a second, the other would take it up, and so the whole ground was pretty well gone over. Harold's principal achievement lay in “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” and Marie-Celeste's in the recitation of “Jabberwocky” from “Through the Looking-Glass;” for not only was she able to slip its almost unpronounceable words quite easily from her tongue, but she remembered the explanation of them given by Humpty Dumpty, when Alice appeals to him a little later on in the story, and he modestly informs her that he can explain all the poems that ever were invented, “and a good many beside that haven't been invented just yet.”
“It's getting near four o'clock,” said Dorothy, feeling at last that she must interrupt the flow of conversation, no matter how interesting; “let us write the note asking for the picture, and then see something of the rest of the college.”
So the note was written and left conspicuously upon the writing-table; and then with one long farewell glance about them, and a flower stolen from a vase by Marie-Celeste and laid between the leaves of her prayer-book, they turned their backs on all they would ever be permitted to know of Lewis Carroll, and the door with the spring lock swung to behind them.
It had been part of the plan to attend the five-o'clock service in Christ Church Cathedral; and after spending a half hour or so in wandering through the cloisters and gaining something of an idea of the college as a whole, they went early into the cathedral, that they might also stroll for a while through the beautiful old church whose history dates as far back as the middle of the eighth century. At five o'clock promptly the beautiful choral service began, and the sweet music and the earnest spirit of the service seemed to round out to a fitting close that always to be remembered Sunday afternoon in Oxford.
You might not care much for it, but to me it would be a delight to follow our friends on Ted's break as they rolled merrily out from town on the bright Monday morning succeeding their two days' stay at Oxford, and to keep with them all the way; not that anything momentous or wildly exciting happened on the trip, only that if it were possible to put all its charm onto paper, there is no question but you would enjoy it. Somebody has put it onto paper, however, and very successfully, too; so that I should advise you, in case a driving trip through the English Lake Country does not soon happen to come your way, to look between the covers of “The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton,” as soon as you grow a bit older, and see if you do not discover the charm of it for yourself. But whether we would or no, we have not the time just now to bowl quietly along in leisurely fashion through that lovely region of hills and lakes. Besides the party on the break are quite sufficient to themselves, while down at Nuneham there is a fellow who would be thankful enough for any advice that we could give him.
“What had I better do?” is the question that Ted is turning over and over in his mind, for the time has come for Ted to do something, and there are more difficulties confronting him than any one has an idea of. He has not even taken Harry Allyn fully into his confidence, so proud is this same foolish Ted. Besides, Harry Allyn, who, as you know, is in dead earnest about his “new leaf,” is up at Oxford delving away, midsummer though it is, at some back work that was sadly neglected in the spring term, and has actual need to be made up.
Finally Ted, who finds himself simply reasoning in a circle, decides to lay the whole matter before Donald; for Donald, boy that he is, has opinions of his own which he does not fear to express, and, what is more, Ted in desperation feels that he simply must turn to somebody. And so it comes about that at the close of an August afternoon, when Ted has the house to himself (Chris having taken the old keeper and his wife off for a drive), that he calls to Donald, who, coming up from a day's work in the kitchen garden, is on his way to put his tools away in the barn.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Harris?” leaving rake and hoe against the cottage shingles and slipping into the chair nearest the door, out of regard for Mrs. Hartley's clean-swept carpet.
“It's just this, Donald. I'm in a fix, and I want you to help me out.”
“A new fix, Mr. Harris?” with a long breath, as though he thought there had really been rather too much of that sort of thing already.
“No, an old one, Donald, and I fancy you know enough of my record these last four years to imagine what it is.”
“I shouldn't wonder if you're in debt,” for Ted had hinted as much once or twice to Donald.
“Exactly, head over heels in debt;” and although Ted's words were light enough, his manner was very serious.
“And you want me to help you out?” said Donald, remembering the three or four sovereigns knotted up sailor fashion in a handkerchief with a few other treasures, and representing all his worldly store.
“No, I'm not going to take any savings of yours,” said Ted, imagining that Donald might so have understood him; “but I want to put the case to you, and have you tell me what to do;” and Donald listened attentively while Ted “put his case” plainly and without any mental reservations whatever.
“It's a terrible big sum,” said Donald, when all was told, “but you say you have money enough to pay it several times over if you could only get at it.”
“Exactly; but I can't get at it any more than though it didn't belong to me—not till I'm twenty-five, and that's two years off. You see, my father thought he had given me a generous income, and he had—rather too generous for my good, it seems.”
“I suppose the people you owe it to would wait two years if they felt sure they would get the money then for Donald, with the wisdom of an older head, was trying to look at the matter from all sides.
“No, Donald, that wouldn't do. They're trades-people, most of them, and they've waited longer than they can afford to already. I must manage to borrow the money somewhere—but where, that's the question.”
“Couldn't Harold help you a little?”
“Not to any extent. Harold can't touch his money any more than I; besides, Harold is not to know,” and Ted spoke decidedly, as though in that direction his mind was fully made up, and he needed advice from no one.
“Aren't there men up in London who make a business of lending money?” for Donald hadn't knocked about the world without gaining some knowledge of men and affairs.
“Yes, there are, but I want to keep this thing just as quiet as possible. I do wish I had some friend to turn to.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, looking Ted squarely in the face, “it's an awful pity about you; there is no sense at all in your going on the way you have. When a fellow has a home and friends and money, there isn't any excuse for that sort of thing. Seems to me it would be so easy then to keep straight.”
Ted winced a little under Donald's frankness, knowing all that lay beneath it. It had sometimes been very difficult for the boy there before him, to whom home and money had been always lacking, and friends as well until within these last few weeks, to live up to the best that he knew. No boy puts to sea, as Donald had done, without coming face to face with some sore temptations, but his whole look and bearing showed how manfully he had resisted them, and the earnest honesty of his eyes preached a sermon as they met Ted's.
“It is an awful pity,” said Ted, echoing Donald's words, and hating his own record more than any one else could hate it; “but all that is left me is to try and mend matters. The only comfort is that I've come to my senses at last. A great many never do, you know.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, who had been listening to Ted and doing his own thinking at one and the same time, “there was an Englishman came over on the steamer with us, who grew to be great friends with Marie-Celeste, and Marie-Celeste told me all about him one of those afternoons when I was too weak to do anything but lie in my berth, and she tried to entertain me. She said he was a bachelor, and rich as could be, and she thought the best thing that could happen to him would be to do somebody a good turn with his money. If you feel that you want to keep this matter sort of quiet, just between gentleman and gentleman (which was a phrase Donald had heard Mr. Harris use, and was glad to be able to appropriate), why don't you go up to London and hunt him up? He lives at one of the big clubs. You could easily find him. His name was Belden.”
At this Ted gave a start of surprise, as did Miss Dorothy Allyn when Marie-Celeste made the same announcement the day of their talk in St. George's Chapel. And then Ted asked, as had she: “Are you sure it was Belden? You see, Donald,” he continued, “I've an old bachelor uncle whose name is Selden—my mother's brother—and who answers to your description to a dot—a surly old customer, who would do little enough for me, or any one else, I imagine.”
“No; it was Belden sure. Everybody called him Mr. Belden, and it was so on the passenger list; I've got one in my chest upstairs; I'll bring it, and you can see for yourself.”
“Donald,” said Ted, when, the list having been produced, he felt that the balance of evidence was not in favor of Mr. Belden and Mr. Selden being one and the same, “that is a happy thought of yours, and up to London I will go.”
“You oughtn't to go alone, Mr. Harris; you're not strong enough for that yet.”
“I wonder if Chris would let you turn valet for me and go too.”
“I'd give a great deal to see London again,” said Donald enthusiastically.
“Would wages have to be taken into account?” laughed Ted; “you know the state of my finances, Donald.”
“Board and expenses—that is all, sir,” and so the serious talk ended with this bit of pleasantry; and Ted realizing that he had not been disappointed in feeling that Donald would somehow be able to help him, found himself entering into the new scheme with rather more hope than circumstances would seem to justify.
It was by no means a cheery announcement to the household in the little thatched cottage when Ted told them that evening, that two days later he must gather his belongings together and turn his back on the home and the friends that had formed his little world during all the long weeks of convalescence; and then when he asked if Donald might perhaps be permitted to go up to London with him, Mrs. Hartley felt that all the brightness of the summer was fast slipping away. No one could appreciate what new life had opened up for the old couple with the coming of Chris and Ted and Donald, and now two were proposing to go at once, and only five weeks more, and Chris would be bidding them farewell on his way to the Majestic down at Liverpool, and on which it had been arranged that Donald at the same time should once more put to sea. So no wonder that at first they all declared that the boy could not be spared; but the more they thought of it the more they felt that Ted really needed him. As a result, a telegram was finally sent to Mr. Harris, which caught the driving party at Windemere, asking if he would approve of Donald's going up to London with a convalescent gentleman who greatly needed his services. The telegram was signed Christopher Hartley; and Mr. Harris, concluding that Donald and Chris were quite able to decide what was best in the matter, telegraphed back, “No objection, of course, if you think it advisable;” and its welcome message brought more joy to the hearts of Ted and Donald than they could graciously give expression to in the face of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley's regret at their departure.
It was astonishing with what celerity Donald had seemed to merge the sailor-boy in the farm-hand, and now in turn the farm-hand in the valet. He brushed away at Ted's clothes as vigorously as though that had been his calling from his youth up, and stowed away his belongings in the boxes that Harry Allyn had sent down from Oxford with an economy of space that was truly amazing. And now at last there was no more to be done, and Mrs. Hartley bade her boys God-speed with lips that from trembling could hardly frame the blessing, and on which face—Ted's or Donald's—loving gratitude found deeper expression it would have been difficult to have told. The old keeper pressed Ted's hands, and actually said something about feeling he had been a little hard on him at first; and then turning to Donald, made him promise to count Nuneham as his home ever afterward, and run down for a Sunday between voyages whenever he could manage it; and the words were about the most precious that had ever fallen on Donald's ears.
The hotel to which the two travellers betook themselves in London was a modest one, as befitted their circumstances. Ted, however, who, in spite of himself, had still considerable regard for appearances, could not resist the temptation of investing—though Donald urgently protested against such extravagance—in a suit of clothes, somewhat less conspicuous than the nautical blue jersey and wide-flapping trousers of Donald's Sunday best, and better adapted to his new calling.
“Now, Donald,” said Ted, who found himself relying on Donald's advice in truly remarkable fashion, “what's to be the first step in the programme? Shall we try to look up your Mr. Belden in the London Directory?”
“As you say, sir,” said Donald, who was amusing himself and Ted as well by endeavoring to acquit himself as the most respectful of valets. So forth they fared together, for the little hostelry was by far too unpretentious to boast a city directory; but the morning was so fine, notwithstanding mid-August weather, that they were tempted to stroll on and on, deferring a little, by tacit consent, the immediate object of their expedition. Along the Thames embankment they strolled from their quarters up near Blackfriar's Bridge, past the Savoy Hotel, and keeping near the river until, reaching Northumberland Avenue, they turned in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, attracted by a sign over a doorway, when they had gone a few squares farther on, “I believe this is Mr. Belden's club. Marie-Celeste told me its name once, and I'm almost sure this is it.” Whereupon Ted straightway found himself feeling very much dismayed at the announcement, and his heart misgave him, as hearts have a way of doing when the time has come for mere intention to take the more definite form of action. The object of this search of theirs seemed all at once to Ted the most ridiculous thing imaginable. The idea of expecting that a stranger, to whom his only introduction was that of a cabin-boy of the White Star Line, would be likely to take an interest in him to the extent of making him a loan of a large sum of money at rather a low rate of interest; and then Ted realized what some of us have realized before, that all he had practically to build upon was Marie-Celeste's remark to Donald, “that she felt very sure that the best thing that could happen to this same rich Mr. Belden would be to do a good turn to somebody and Ted once more scored himself a fool to have seriously considered the thing for a moment. But it was too late now to retreat, for Donald was having an animated talk with the buttons of the door of the Reform Club; and Ted, who stood just out of earshot, was the victim of all sorts of uncomfortable sensations as to what the result might be.
“It looks,” said Donald, coming down the steps and back to Ted, with a puzzled frown on his face, “as though there really might be a mistake somewhere. I am perfectly sure this is the name of the club, and the buttons says they have a Mr. Selden, but no Mr. Belden.”
“Donald,” said Ted almost savagely “let us walk away just as quickly as possible. There is no doubt about it now. The man you mean is my uncle, and I wouldn't put myself in his way for all the world. Can't you walk faster, Donald?” But meantime, the uncle in question was hastening to put himself in Ted's way with all possible speed, or rather in Donald's, which, as it happened, was one and the same thing. It seemed that Mr. Selden (circumstances permitting, it is better to call people by their real names) had discovered Donald from the dining-room window just as he was descending the steps, and recognizing him instantly flung his napkin onto the table, and hurrying from the room seized his hat from the rack as he passed.
“Bring that boy back!” was his breathless older to the buttons; but the door being open, he rushed through it himself, deciding that the matter was too important to be delegated to any one less interested than himself.
“Donald,” he called, overtaking him at last, a whole square away—“Donald, were you looking for me?”
Donald turned, and the next moment was shaking hands warmly with Mr. Selden, his face fairly beaming with glad surprise; but Ted stood by, the picture of hopeless despair. His first absurd impulse had been to run, for though first impulses are magnificent things as a rule, they do sometimes suggest the most outlandish performances. His second, which was fortunately the one upon which he acted, was to stand and see the thing through, giving himself over to his fate with an air of most woebegone resignation to whatever might be in store for him.
“Who is your friend?” said Mr. Selden, politely lifting his hat to Ted; for his own greeting over, poor Donald was at his wit's end, not knowing whether Ted would wish to be introduced or no. What was his relief, then, when Ted, lifting his hat politely in return, said: “You don't recognize me then, Uncle Everett?”
Why, yes I do, Theodore for although it was years since he had seen him, the momentarily uncovered head had at once established his identity; “but how do you and Donald happen to be in each other's company? Marie-Celeste told me Donald was on a farm down in Oxfordshire, and that you—well, that nobody knew where you were exactly.”
“It's rather a long story,” said Theodore slowly; and then remembering his uncle's stolid indifference to things in general, he added coldly, “I doubt if it would have much interest for you.”
Mr. Selden understood the case perfectly, knowing that his former record with Ted would justify his speaking in this fashion; but he only said: “All the same, I would like to know about it. Will you come back to the club with me?”
The eyes of the valet waited upon his master, but they said very plainly, “Do let us go;” and the master, after hesitating a moment, accepted this most unexpected of invitations.
Marie-Celeste, here is a letter for you, and it is the third one you have received under cover of direction to me; and, if I am not mistaken, I recognize the handwriting on this one; I believe it is from Theodore Harris.”
Marie-Celeste, with a meek little “thank you,” simply took the letter from Dorothy's extended hand.
“And, Marie-Celeste,” Dorothy continued, “you are not showing them to your mother. They come enclosed in these envelopes, and that is so that she shall not know that you receive them, I suppose.”
“Yes, Miss Dorothy,” but with her mind quite intent on the letter, and therefore rather absent-mindedly.
“Well, then, do you know, I believe I shall tell her.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy,” with all the absent-mindedness gone in a minute, and with gravest reproach in the dark brown eyes, “you wouldn't—you wouldn't do that!”
“Why, my dear child, I almost feel as though I ought to; it is such an uncommon thing for a little girl of twelve to be in surreptitious correspondence with at least three different people, for there has been a different hand on every letter. It seems wrong to me to-be helping on such a mysterious proceeding, with no idea whatever of what it all means.”
“Miss Dorothy,” said Marie-Celeste, “I am in a great big secret, that's all, but I do wish—I do wish very much that you were in it too,” which was indeed the truth, for this not being able to talk over matters with anybody was almost more than she could longer endure.
“Well, don't you believe it would do to take me in, then?” said Dorothy rather entreatingly. “I confess I would like to know what Theodore Harris is writing to you about; and besides it doesn't seem fair to put too much upon a little girl like you. You seem to be thinking so hard so much of the time.”
“They are pretty nice thoughts, though,” Marie-Celeste replied, “as you'll see when I tell you, because I've about decided to tell you. I think it's right, too, and I don't believe they'll mind, and I am going up to the house to bring the other two letters and read them to you. It will make you happier than anything you ever heard,” and Marie-Celeste spoke truer than she knew.
Meanwhile, Dorothy sat gazing out over beautiful Lake Coniston, wondering if she were really doing the right thing in persuading Marie-Celeste to confide in her, and unable to arrive at any decision. She was sitting on a little rustic seat down by the water's edge, which Marie-Celeste, with her passion for exploring new surroundings, had discovered the evening before, almost immediately upon their arrival at the Waterhead Hotel. It was here that Dorothy had counted on finding Marie-Celeste, and it was here that she was left alone with her thoughts while Marie-Celeste ran off on her self-imposed errand. It was a beautiful little sheet of water that lay there at her feet, with its densely wooded banks and its wilderness still uninvaded by civilization; and just across the lake the setting sun was crimsoning the chimneys and pointed gables of the only house upon that farther bank. It is this home that lends its own special interest to the little lake, for it is the home of that grand old idealist, Ruskin. It is just such a home as you would know that wise philosopher would choose, far from the haunts of men and all the devastating improvements of the age. A grand place, too, to work, you think; and then you recall with a sigh that the light of that glorious mind has well-nigh gone out, 'neath the weight of physical weariness and infirmity, and then the solitary home begins to look a little like a prison in your eyes, as you realize how glad its inmate would be to exchange it for the Palace of that King whose divine intent for the world he has so marvellously interpreted for us all in the days when soul was still master of hand and brain.
But there was no room in Dorothy's mind just then for musings either on nature or Ruskin, and it is to be feared that the dancing blue of the water and the purple shadows on the hills and golden glow of the sunset made little impression on her wholly preoccupied mind. What could Theodore Harris be writing to Marie-Celeste about, and who could the other two letters be from? Those were the absorbing questions of the hour; and at last Marie-Celeste is back again on the little seat beside her, ready to unlock her precious secrets, and with the three mysterious letters spread, one upon the other, open in her lap.
“Now, think a moment, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy seriously; “are you sure it is perfectly right to tell me?”
“But you said you'd tell my mother if I didn't,” laughed Marie-Celeste.
“Oh, no, dear! I didn't put it quite like that. I only wondered if, perhaps, it was not my duty. But I know from what you have already told me that everything is all right. You see, I did not quite like to have a hand in anything so very unusual without being taken just a little into your confidence. You remember, when the other letters came, you scampered off in most excited fashion to read them all by yourself somewhere, and then never opened your lips about them afterward, so that I could not help feeling that it was a very queer proceeding, and that I really ought to look into it.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly, Miss Dorothy; and Ted says right here at the end of his letter: 'Tell Miss Allyn all about things if you think best.'” And of course that settled matters beautifully, quieting the last little suggestion of a compunction on Dorothy's part.
“Now, the best way to tell you,” Marie-Celeste began, “will be to read the letters. This first one is from Donald. 'London, August 20th'”—
“London, Marie-Celeste!”
“Wait, Miss Dorothy; it will explain itself,” smiling with delight at the pleasant surprises contained in those three precious letters.
“'London, August 20th. My dear friend' (you know, Donald has to begin that way, because he didn't like to say Marie-Celeste, and so never called me anything), 'you will be surprised to find I am in London, and, what is more, that I have come up to London as a valet for a gentleman, and the gentleman, let me tell you, is your cousin, Mr. Harris. You know we grew to be good friends all those weeks together down at the Hartleys', at Nuneham!'”
“Do you mean to say,” interrupted Dorothy—for the letter was not explaining things quite as fully as might be desired—“that Donald has actually been staying in the same cottage with Theodore?”
“You knew about Ted's accident, didn't you, Miss Dorothy? Ted said you did, that your brother had told you.”
“Yes, I knew about that, but I do not know where it happened or where he has been staying all these weeks.”
“You've heard me talk about Chris, our postman, haven't you, who came over on the steamer with us?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Well, then, if you will believe it, it was just by his grandfather's cottage, just outside of Nuneham, where the accident happened, and they're the people who've been caring for him; and then when Donald went down there to work on the farm, of course he discovered him; and then when I went down the other day from Oxford, I discovered him too, and poor Ted's had a very hard time to keep his secret.”
“But Harold was with you, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy eagerly; “does he know, too?”
“No, Harold doesn't know; it's all on his account that there's any secret about it now; you know Ted wants to prove to Harold that he means to do the right thing before he lets him know the worst there is about him. He means to tell him everything some day.” And then Marie-Celeste proceeded to narrate at length her unexpected encounter with Ted under the apple-tree, so that Dorothy gradually came to a clear comprehension of how matters stood, and Marie-Celeste was free once more to let Donald speak for himself.
“'And what we came up to London for,' continued the letter, 'was to see a gentleman about some business matters; and the gentleman we wanted to see was Mr. Belden—your rich old bachelor friend you know—and who did he prove to be but a Mr. Selden, Mr. Theodore's own uncle? His name was printed Belden by mistake on the passenger list, and when Mr. Selden made friends with you that first day out, and found out that you were going to visit his nephews at Windsor, he didn't tell anyone it was wrong, because he didn't want you or your father or mother to know who he was.'”
“What did I tell you, Marie-Celeste,” interrupted Dorothy with a little air of superiority, “that time you told me about him in St. George's? I knew it must be the same man.”
“But, Miss Dorothy, ever since this letter came I've been wondering why he didn't want us to know who he was.”
“Because he has chosen forever so long not to have anything to do with any of his relations, for fear they'd bother him, I suppose.”
“Well, he's gotten over that,” said Marie-Celeste; “you'll see when I read his letter.” And Dorothy looked as though she thought wonders would never end, which was exactly the way Marie-Celeste wanted her to look, and would have been vastly disappointed if she had not.
“'Land knows,' read Marie-Celeste, resuming the letter, 'why he wanted to be so mum about things; that's his own affair, of course; but he's been awfully good to us, and he has fixed up some matters that were bothering your cousin a great deal just beautifully. All the same, he doesn't look a bit well, Marie-Celeste, and he's a sad sort of man. It seems as though he had something on his mind, but he's not going to let anybody know what it is—that isn't his way. We've been in London now nearly a week, stopping in lodgings in the same house with Mr. Selden. We've had to stay because of the business matters, but to-morrow we are going down to Oxford to see to some things there, and then in a day or two home to the Little Castle. You see, I've been able to make myself real useful to Mr. Harris, because, you know, he's not overstrong yet, and accustomed, besides, to having a valet—which is what I happen to be at present; but it's not going to be for long, and between us, Marie-Celeste, I'm not sorry. I half believe that father of mine, that I don't know anything about, must have been a sea-captain. There are times when it's all I can do to keep from running away from everything and putting to sea again as fast as ever I can on any old tub that'll take me; but, of course, I really wouldn't do anything so mean; and all told, I have had a beautiful summer. Chris has decided to go back to the States on the Majestic, sailing the first of October, and I'm to take my old place on that trip, too. It seems as though you all ought to be on board with us. Couldn't you get your father to bring it about somehow? Whew, what a long letter I have written!—the longest in my life, and I never wrote more than half a dozen, anyway. Don't stay away too long. It's going to be rather lonely at Windsor without you all, and there isn't so very much time left now. Won't Mr. Harold be surprised to find his brother in the Little Castle ready to receive him! Mr. Theodore's getting to be a brick, I can tell you. Good-by. As long as your people are not to know what's in this letter, Mr. Harris tells me to put it in an envelope addressed to Miss Allyn.
“'Yours truly,
“'Donald.'”
“So much for Donald;” and Marie-Celeste, pausing to catch her breath, hesitated to which of the other two letters to give the preference. “I think I'll read Theodore's next, Miss Dorothy, because it's the latest, but really Donald's the most interesting of the three. This letter, is from Windsor, and it was written only yesterday morning. It is dated 'The Little Castle.' 'Dear little Coz,' it says, 'here I am, you see, and I assure you I have kept my promise to the letter, and have come home as soon as ever I could.'”
“Why were you so anxious to make him promise that?” asked M iss Dorothy wonderingly.
“Why, because home's the best place for him; don't you think so? He has not been there half enough these last few years, and, besides, that's where he belongs—”
“But having the Little Castle all to himself probably does not seem home-like,” suggested Dorothy sympathetically.
“Yes, that's just what he says,” laughed Marie-Celeste; so that Dorothy thought her a trifle hard-hearted. “And now I'll begin over again. 'Dear little Coz, here I am, you see, and I assure you I have kept my promise to the letter, and have come home as soon as ever I could; but home doesn't seem a very cheery sort of place when all your relatives are off on a lark, and on your own brake at that, and you must fain content yourself with the companionship of your valet. He's a fine little valet, however, Marie-Celeste, and he tells me that he has stolen my thunder in a long letter he wrote you from London; so you know all about my going in search of your friend, Mr. Belden, and finding in his place my uncle, Mr. Selden. Well, this letter is just to tell you what I told you once before, you remember, and that is, that you are my good little angel, no matter how bad you may have been for three whole days together,” and to ask you not to forget that there is rather a lonely fellow here at Windsor, who hopes you are having a good time, but who honestly thinks that the sooner you come home the better. Tell Miss Dorothy all about things if you think best, but don't paint me any blacker than you feel you really have to.
“'Yours faithfully,
“'Theodore.'”
“Well, I haven't painted him very black, have I?” said Marie-Celeste complacently; but Dorothy was far too absorbed in her own thoughts to make any answer, and Marie-Celeste looked at her a little curiously, wondering what was going on in her mind.
“Perhaps you'd rather be left to yourself?” she added half mischievously, after a minute or more of unbroken silence.
'Oh, no; you didn't paint him black at all for Dorothy was able instantly to bring her thoughts hack and say what was expected of her.
“This other letter,” explained Marie-Celeste, looking askance at the note in her hand, “is rather spooney; I don't believe I had better read it.”
“Mr. Selden write a spooney letter! that's impossible!” exclaimed Dorothy, who thought 'she knew her man,' as the saying goes; whereupon Marie-Celeste, of course, straightway read the letter in order to prove her premises.
“'Reform Club, London, August 20.
“'They tell me, dear Marie-Celeste (and they means, of course, your Cousin Theodore and Donald), that you are taking a driving tour through the English lakes, and that if I should address a letter to you, care of Miss Dorothy Allyn, no one would be any the wiser; and that's just what I've done, you see, as, for reasons of his own, your Cousin Theodore seems to prefer it. You know already that this same Cousin Theodore has been up here in London several days with me, and as a result we have had many a long talk together; but you do not know, perhaps, that we came to the conclusion that your coming to England this summer had been just the best thing that could have happened to both of us. Likely as not you do not exactly understand how that can be, and it is as well, perhaps, that you should not; only take my word for it, that it is true, and ask no questions. This much, however, I will tell you. Ted said to me one day, 'I can tell you one thing, Uncle Everett, it was a talk I had with that dear child under an apple-tree, down at Nuneham, that made me feel that some people whom I care a great deal for still had faith in me, and it was she who gave me courage by what she told me to go home as fast as ever I could get there and then, Marie-Celeste, what do you suppose I said to him? Well, I just, told him that that same dear child had preached me two blessed sermons—one on the deck of the Majestic and the other exactly where a sermon should be preached, beneath the roof of dear old St. George's, and that what there was left of my life was going to be set in a new key.”
“This letter will not make you proud, Marie-Celeste, I know, only very grateful, and one day I believe you will understand better than it is possible for you now to understand to-day how even in this world the prophecy comes true sometimes that “a little child shall lead them.”
“You must write and tell me when you are going home, for somehow or other I must contrive to see you before you go, and what is more, I mean to seek out a chance for a good talk with your father and mother.
“'Yours faithfully,
“'Everett Belden.'”
“And you call that a spooney letter! Marie-Celeste, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” and Dorothy tried to look the reproach she felt the occasion called for.
“I only meant, Miss Dorothy, that it said some nice things about me.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, then, I'll forgive you; but that is not what people usually mean by spooney,” and Dorothy putting her arm about Marie-Celeste, they strolled up to the house together. “And you understand—don't you, dear?—that I did not mean to force your confidence in any way, only it did seem so mysterious?”
“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly; and you understand too, Miss Dorothy, how I would have told you about it long ago, if I thought I could and everything at last being mutually understood, there was happily no need for further explanations.”