9169
Everything was ready for the start, but no one knew how much that meant as well as Harold and Uncle Fritz, for they had thought of nothing else for three whole weeks together. The others would find out by degrees what a delightful thing it was to have had everything so carefully arranged and well thought out beforehand. The start was to be for the English Lake Country, and the being ready meant that everything that could by any possibility be needed on a month's driving tour had been carefully stowed away somewhere. It was a select little party of six—Uncle Fritz and Aunt Lou, Marie-Celeste, Miss Allyn, Harold and Mr. Farwell, a young American artist whom Uncle Fritz had come to know. Mr. Farwell was invited, if the truth be told, more to fill up than for any other reason; for three in a row is the invariable rule for an English break, unless you are willing to be shaken about rather more than is by any means agreeable. The back seat was reserved for the two grooms, and a bundle of wraps and rugs strapped to the cushion between them showed that they at any rate recognized the desirability of not having too much room at their disposal. The break that was brought into requisition belonged to Theodore, and was simply appropriated by Harold, for there was no saying “by your leave†to a fellow who went driving through the country himself without even taking the pains to enlighten you as to his whereabouts.
“Who knows but we shall meet him somewhere?†thought Harold, knowing that Ted's trip was also to be through the English Lakes; “and if we do, I'll give him another piece of my mind, for he's been more than rude to Aunt Lou and Uncle Fritz, never putting himself out the least bit for them. Oh, if Ted were only a different sort of fellow! He ought to be the sixth one in this party instead of Mr. Farwell. But, heigho! it would be a shame to let Ted spoil this trip for me, and I'm not going to think of him again—that is, if I can help it—unless we happen to meet.â€
Harold was indulging in this meditation as he stood waiting by the break for the rest of the party, for thinking comes very easy when one has nothing to do; but wise are the folk, big or little, who, like Harold, resolve to banish uncomfortable thoughts from the mind when convinced that thinking is not in the least likely to better them.
Of course, as you may imagine, there was one little heart sadly rebellious and envious over the setting out of this happy party. “Not quite big enough to fill up,†was the chief excuse given; but the little Knight of the Garter knew full well that he was considered too small every way to be for one moment taken into the calculation. Oh, what would he not have given if only his arrival in this world might have been timed in closer proximity to Harold's and Marie-Celeste's—it was such an insupportable thing to be seven long years behind! But, all the same, his time would come, and his little envious heart secretly cherished the revengeful hope that he, in turn, might have the grim satisfaction of informing other young hopefuls that their extreme youth and diminutive proportions excluded them from participating in this or that pleasure to which his riper age entitled him, all of which unknightly and most unchristian sentiments we trust will be put to rout when he comes to years of discretion. But this aside about Albert has been merely by way of parenthesis while the party from the Little Castle are mounting the steps to the break, and stowing themselves away in their places. Uncle Fritz, who had spent all his boyhood on a New England farm near Franconia, and taken many a trip on a White Mountain coach by the side of an indulgent driver, had early mastered the secret of competent four-in-hand driving, and was therefore first to take his seat on the driver's almost perpendicular cushion. Next to him sat Harold, who could also manage the four-in-hand whenever Uncle Fritz thought best to resign in his favor, and next to Harold, Marie-Celeste, grateful for the arrangement that accorded to her a seat on the outside edge. On the middle seat Aunt Lou sat alone in solemn grandeur, but only until they could cover the little distance to the White Hart Inn to take aboard Mr. Farwell, and then wheel round to Canon Allyn's for Dorothy.
Dorothy Allyn was standing in the doorway ready and expectant, and looking as pretty as a picture in a gray costume and a hat with a wide-rolling brim, that in her case was vastly becoming. Albert's disconsolate face was pressed close to a window-pane, which was as near as he cared to come to such a joyous company. Marie-Celeste declared she could almost see the lump in the poor little fellow's throat, and the recollection of the utter hopelessness of the teary brown eyes lingered rather sadly for a while in the memory of all of the party.
But who could long be grave at the outset of so promising an expedition! The idea of a leisurely driving trip through the lovely Lake Country, stopping here and there, as the spirit moved them, at the comfortable little inns and hotels that abound in the region, had been such a supremely delightful idea, even in mere anticipation, that now that they were actually off enthusiasm knew no bounds, and mirth was literally unconfined. Not that any very remarkable things were said, but one can laugh very easily, you know, and at almost nothing, when one's heart is light as a feather and the “goose hangs high,†as the queer old saying has it.
And yet for all that, to all those happy hearts there might have been added one extra touch still of lightness. Mr. Farwell was no doubt a most desirable addition, and all were delighted that he could come; but the place belonged by rights to Ted—wilful, wandering, selfish Ted, who might have added so much to their pleasure if he had not chosen to turn his back upon them all and prefer any company in the world, apparently, to that of kith and kin and old friends at Windsor. The thought and half hope that they might meet him somewhere on the trip was in every mind but one. Dorothy knew better. Dorothy knew a great deal, in fact, for her brother Harry had made one surreptitious visit home; that is, he had arrived by night and left again by night, and no one outside of his own family had been a bit the wiser. And during that visit Harry, under pledge of perfect secrecy on the part of his mother and Dorothy, had told them everything.
“You see, the reason why I want you to keep so dark about it all,†Harry had explained, “is because of Ted. I believe the fellow's just as ashamed of this last year at Oxford as I am, but you know, Dorothy, as well as I do (as, alas! Dorothy did know to her sorrow), that Ted's awfully touchy and sensitive, and it takes a very little thing to turn him one way or the other. Well, now, let Harold, who is pretty well out of the notion of Ted already, come to hear of this last scrape, and, youngster as he is, I believe he'd throw him over; and Ted, you know, wouldn't stand any nonsense of that sort and would tell Harold 'to go his own way and welcome,' and who knows what the upshot of that would be! If Ted does not feel he must make an effort to lead a different sort of life for Harold's sake, he may come to the conclusion that the thing's not worth trying. You see, you can't feel sure about a fellow's good resolutions till you have had a chance to test them, and Ted's haven't had to stand any strain as yet.â€
Now, to know all this was naturally a great comfort to Harry's mother and sister, for they had of course been not a little anxious on Harry's own account at the way things seemed to be going, but there was one thing they were content not to know for a while—for the reason that Harry strongly urged it—and that was where he and Ted were staying. There need be no difficulty on this account about their writing, because letters could be forwarded promptly from Oxford, whereas if they were able to say where Harry was, then Ted would have to be accounted for, too, and there was no telling where that would end. Now, this narration is simply by way of telling you how Dorothy had come to know that there was no sort of use in hoping to come across the two seniors, who, like themselves, were supposed to be enjoying all the delights of driving through the English Lake Country.
It had been decided that Oxford was to be the first stopping-place of the driving party, and quite a stop it was to be. Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Mr. Farwell had never been there, and they planned to spend at least two days prowling about the dear old colleges. But Marie-Celeste and Harold had a scheme on foot in comparison with which all the colleges put together could not offer the least attraction. They were to be permitted to go down early Saturday morning to Nuneham, take Chris and Donald by surprise, and spend the whole day with them.
0173
Why, that plan in itself was worth all the rest of the trip; and when Mr. Harris, to whom the idea had first occurred, suggested it, Marie-Celeste had put her two arms round her father's neck, declaring “he was just a darling and yet, when you come to think of it, he was the very same old curmudgeon of a papa, and not one whit altered either, who had been so soundly berated for insisting that it would be better for Donald to have some easy work to do than to idle away the whole summer.â€
Ah, well! the little Queen had deeply repented that sorry episode; and endeavoring ourselves to forget it, let us agree never again so much as to allude to it.
So down to Nuneham they went bright and early Saturday morning, and, feeling fine as a lark, or as two larks, to speak more correctly, they preferred doing the walking themselves over the mile and a half out from Nuneham to engaging a most unpromising horse attached to a little carry-all to do it for them. They would at least seem to be getting over the ground at a faster rate, and be able to work off considerable superfluous energy into the bargain. And it was really marvellous how soon they reached their destination. Far too excited to converse by the way, every breath was reserved for the exertion of walking, and so it happened that they made almost the best time on record. And when they reached the cottage, or rather the little lane that runs down between the hedgerows, who did they see at once but Chris himself, busy at work in the garden, and Donald, hoe in hand, close beside him, cutting vigorously at the weeds round some hop-vines, and both working away with such a will and such a farmer-like air that it looked as though both had mistaken their calling. But working with a will sometimes means nothing more than determination to do one's duty; and from what we happen to know, Chris would much have preferred setting cheerily forth on his round in Uncle Sam's far-away city, and Donald was probably dreaming of the blue boundless sea and the steamer ploughing its way in the teeth of a driving nor'easter. But wherever their thoughts may have been, they instantly both stopped thinking, for first they heard the familiar bugle-call of the steamer ring out on the air in the clearest sort of a whistle; and then—could they believe their eyes?—there stood Marie-Celeste and Harold right before them on the other side of the hawthorn.
“Well, I never!†cried Chris, and in one bound was over the hedgerow.
“My eyes!†was Donald's surprised exclamation, and then he took to his heels and ran to the cottage as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Mr. Harris,†he panted, with what little breath his run had left him, “your brother has come—he's just out in the lane there with Marie-Celeste, and they'll both be right in here in a minute.â€
“What stuff you are talking, Donald,†for Ted could not believe his ears.
“It's the truth, sir, and you've only a minute, unless you want to see him but it was so very plain that Ted didn't want to see him, that Donald, who more fully took in the need for haste, pressed Ted's hat and cane into his hand, and then throwing open one of the shutters of the back windows of his room, helped him to make the best possible time getting through it. It was rather heroic treatment for a convalescent, who was barely equal as yet to even commonplace modes of proceeding, but there was nothing else to be done if the secret was still to be kept.
“Go down to the big apple-tree in the corner of the meadow,†directed Donald, half under his breath, “and, look here! you had better take this with you,†dragging a steamer rug from the couch, and flinging it out after him, “and I'll come down just as soon as ever I can and let you know how things are going and then Donald drew the shutters noiselessly to and sped back to the lane at as tight a run as he had left it. All this was accomplished in less time than it takes to tell it, and Donald found the children still chatting with Chris in the lane. Chris, having instantly surmised the object of Donald's disappearance, determined that he should have all the time needed; and nothing was easier, under conditions that called naturally for so many explanations, than to engage the children in such an absorbing conversation on the spot as to make no move toward the cottage; but the ring of Donald's feet on the path was the signal that it was safe to lead the way in that direction.
“Well, you are glad to see a fellow,†said Harold, “to take to your heels and run in that fashion the moment you spied us.â€
“There was something I suddenly remembered that I had to see to that very minute,†stammered Donald, shaking bands with Marie-Celeste and Harold at one and the same moment; “but you may just believe I'm glad to see you and the warmth of Donald's welcome fully atoned for the few moments of unexplained delay.
“Did you tell Granny they had come, Donald?†asked Chris, his face fairly beaming at the thought of being able to actually introduce Marie-Celeste to the dear old grandmother.
“No; I stopped for nothing more than I just had to,†said Donald honestly; but Mrs. Hartley, who had been busy in the kitchen wing of the little cottage, and had not heard the commotion in Ted's room, but had happened to catch sight of Donald's flying heels, had come out to see what the matter was.
“Why, you don't tell me this is Marie-Celeste?†she said, putting one hand on Marie-Celeste's shoulder and looking gladly down at the sunny, upturned face. “Why, do you know,†she said, shaking hands with Harold as she spoke, “you have succeeded, I am sure, in giving Chris the very best surprise in all his life.â€
“That they have, Granny,†said Chris warmly; “and they're not going back till late this afternoon, and we're going to make a beautiful day of it.â€
And a beautiful day of it they made; and early in the afternoon Marie-Celeste made something beautiful besides, quite on her own account—nothing else than the discovery which gives its name to this chapter, and which happened to be a beautiful discovery, because it was the means of making somebody take new heart and see things in general in a newer and truer light.
They had been together the entire morning—all the little household, with the exception of the gentleman who, Donald had explained, had met with the accident, and who had gone off for the day. Donald had previously whispered to Mrs. Hartley that Ted was down under the big apple-tree, not feeling much like talking or caring to meet their unexpected company. You see, Donald, having been taken so unreservedly into Ted's confidence, had turned into a thorough diplomat, and had determined to aid and abet his plans in every possible way. Indeed, from what he himself knew of Harold's intense nature, he felt very sure that it would be far wiser and safer that he should never know of all that had happened—not, at any rate, unless Ted, having had a chance to prove the strength of his new resolutions, chose some day himself to tell him. Harold was so proud and Ted was so proud they simply mustn't come together yet awhile if it could in any way be helped. But we must not let this little aside about Donald's attitude toward the whole affair take another moment of our thoughts, for more important and vastly more interesting matters are awaiting our attention.
Of course it goes without saying with those of us who have come to know Mrs. Hartley, that as regal a little dinner was served for the guests from Royal Windsor as the larder of the cottage could afford; but to Martha was due all the praise of actual performance. Mrs. Hartley simply took her knitting, and sat the entire morning right in the midst of the little party just outside the cottage-door.
“You must manage somehow,†she had said seriously to Martha; “I must see all I can of Chris's little Marie-Celeste to-day, for you know it is hardly likely, Martha, that I shall ever see her again.â€
“I'm quite sure I can manage, Mrs. Hartley,†the little maid said proudly, confident that her long apprenticeship had made her fully equal to the occasion, and inwardly rejoicing in the full sense of responsibility.
At the exact hour agreed upon as the best time for dinner, the little maid, turned cook and waitress, announced the meal as ready, and her reward came in the children's demonstrative approval. “Never tasted anything so delicious†was on their lips repeatedly; and Marie-Celeste having told, to the supreme delight of all who listened, the story of her visit to the Queen, even went so far as to declare that she was enjoying it more than the luncheon in the Castle. Mrs. Hartley said, “Oh, my dear!†in a most deprecating way; but there was no gainsaying the evident sincerity of the declaration.
“Perhaps it's because I feel a little more at home in a cottage,†Marie-Celeste explained; “and then, besides,†looking affectionately toward Chris, “it's so fine to be with old friends, you know;†and Chris shook his head and glanced toward his grandmother as much as to say, “Well, now, Granny dear, did you ever see such a darling?â€
“Granny dear†shook her head as much as to say, “No, Chris, I never did;†and Marie-Celeste, daintily preoccupied with a drum-stick, was fortunately none the wiser for this exchange of open admiration.
At the conclusion of dinner Chris took the boys off to a neighboring farm to show them some wonderful Jersey cattle that were expected to take the prize at a coming county fair; but Marie-Celeste, preferring Mrs. Hartley's society, decided to remain at home. No sooner were they gone, however, than Mrs. Hartley, arriving at the decision that she knew better than Mr. Harris himself what was best for him, and that it would doubtless do him good to meet this bright little girl, entered immediately into a bit of diplomacy on her own account.
“Marie-Celeste,†she said, “will you do a little favor for me? Will you run and ask Martha if one of the cup-custards was left over from dinner?â€
“Martha says yes, Mrs. Hartley.â€
“Well, then, will you ask her to give it to you on a little tray, and a piece of sponge-cake besides, well powdered with sugar?â€
“Here it is, Mrs. Hartley,†carefully bringing the laden tray, and looking every whit as pretty as the picture of La Chocolatière, and not unlike her in her pose and gentle dignity.
“And now do you think you could carry it to somebody way down under the apple-tree that you can just see the top of from here?â€
“Surely I could,†her pretty face glowing with the pleasure of the errand, “but I should like to know who the somebody is.â€
“Of course you would. Well, it's the gentleman, Mr. Morris, who met with the accident, and who's been staying with us these six weeks.â€
“Oh, all right, then,†and Marie-Celeste tripped away, at the same time taking care not to stumble, to the apple-tree down in the meadow. But since this chapter is growing rather long, and you have already surmised what it was that Marie-Celeste discovered, it may be as well to stop a moment, draw a long breath, and take another chapter to tell about it.
9179
Marie-Celeste!†gasped Ted, letting his book fall from his hands.
“Cousin Ted!†gasped Marie-Celeste; and flop went the cup-custard over on one side, and then rolled off of the tray altogether. Perhaps you think gasped is a pretty strong word; but when you are fairly taken off your feet with surprise, you can't for the very first moment do much better with words than gasp them.
“Where did you come from, Marie-Celeste?†Ted demanded almost roughly, and as though she had no right in the world to come from any place whatsoever.
“How do you come to be here, Cousin Theodore?†parrying question with question, and drawing her little figure to its full height, in resentment of the tone in which Ted had spoken.
“Oh, you need not make any pretence,†Ted said sarcastically. “Donald has been mean enough to go back on me, and you know all there is to tell. I can see through the whole thing, cup-custard, sponge-cake and all, and Harold 'll be down here in a moment to help lord it over the prodigal.â€
“What do you mean. Ted?†for she really did not understand all he said. “Donald hasn't told me anything, nor Harold, nor anybody. They've all gone off to see some cows somewhere, and Mrs. Hartley asked me if I would not take this little tray down to Mr. Morris, the gentleman who had met with the accident,†and Marie-Celeste gave a comprehensive glance through the little orchard, as though still expecting to discover the real object of her search under some neighboring tree.
“I am the gentleman who met with the accident,†said Ted, smiling in spite of himself, “and my name is supposed to be Morris.â€
The smile relieved matters somewhat, and Marie-Celeste, setting the little tray on the ground, picked up the cup-custard, which had suffered nothing by its fall, and putting it back in its place on the tray, took a seat in the corner of the rug, to which Ted motioned her, and then clasping her two hands round her knees, asked in a tone of most earnest inquiry, “Now tell me, Cousin Theodore, why do you do things like this?â€
“You mean, why do I let myself be thrown out of my trap in a runaway accident, and then be foolish enough to let myself be almost killed into the bargain?â€
“Have you really had an accident, Ted?†with a solicitude that went straight to Ted's heart.
“Yes, considerable of an accident. I fancy it would have done for me, Marie-Celeste, if I had not fallen into the hands of these good people here.â€
“But oh, Ted,†why didn't you send us word? Mamma and I would have come down and taken care of you every moment and she spoke as though they would have just loved to do it.
“Marie-Celeste, you are a dear child;†and Ted, who was hungering at last for the love of kith and kin, could not keep his eyes from growing a little misty. He realized, too, how he had done absolutely nothing; to warrant this little affectionate outburst, and felt sorely humiliated—a sensation which had been very common to poor Ted of late.
“How did the accident happen?†asked Marie-Celeste; and touched by his grave face, she moved a little farther up on the rug.
“Oh, by being a fool, as usual! We were off on a lark, four of us, and I got into a fix so than I couldn't manage the horses, and—â€
“Ted, do you meanâ€â€”and then Marie-Celeste hesitated—“do you mean that you really took so much wine that you did not know what you were about?†for she wanted to understand the whole matter clearly, no matter how shocking it might prove.
“Yes, that was it, Marie-Celeste;†but the child little guessed how the high-strung fellow winced under the confession, and how his self-disgust never reached quite such high-water mark as at that moment.
“Well, go on,†said Marie-Celeste in a tone of utter hopelessness; and then she added, with the air of a little grandmother, “don't keep anything back, Ted; I would rather know all there is.â€
“Well, that's about all there is, Marie-Celeste, and it's enough, isn't it? I was caught under the trap as it went over, and they picked me up as good as dead and carried me into the Hartleys.â€
“But you told us all at Windsor you were going on a driving trip with Mr. Allyn.â€
“So I was before the accident.â€
Marie-Celeste paused a moment to straighten things out in her mind; then she asked, “But why, Ted, did you tell them your name was Morris?â€
“Harry Allyn did that. He knew I would feel awfully mortified, and he wanted Harold never to know.â€
“He never shall,†Marie-Celeste said slowly, giving her full endorsement to that part of the proceeding, and Ted inwardly pronounced her a dearer child than ever.
“Where is Harry Allyn now?â€
“He stops up at the hotel at Nuneham, and comes down to look after me ever day.â€
“Do his people know?â€
“They know about the accident, but not where we are staying.â€
“Oh, well, that makes me understand why Miss Allyn said she hardly believed we would meet you on this driving trip. All the rest of us were hoping we would. Miss Allyn would have hoped so, too, if she had not known, I suppose.â€
“Well, I don't suppose anything of the kind,†said Ted, “but what's this about your driving trip, Marie-Celeste?â€
“Oh, we're on your break, Ted—Harold couldn't write to ask for it, you know, because we didn't know where you were, and we're stopping at Oxford now; but we left papa and mamma and Miss Dorothy and Mr. Farwell for to-day, because Harold and I preferred coming down here to surprise Chris and Donald to seeing all the colleges in the world.â€
“Who is Mr. Farwell?â€
“Oh, he's a very nice young artist, a friend of papa's.â€
“And he is taking a driving trip on my break, is he?†said Ted demurely, and not appearing exactly to fancy the idea.
“Why, of course, as he's in our party, Ted.â€
“Yes, I understand; and now, Marie-Celeste, you are going to help me keep my secret, are you? But you know you're not to tell anybody for a while, not even your father and mother; do you think you can do it?â€
“I will surely do it, Cousin Theodore, if you will do something for me; will you promise me you will?â€
“If I can, little cousin;†for who could withstand the entreaty in the earnest childish voice?
“Will you come home, Cousin Theodore, as soon as ever you can?â€
“What's the use, Marie-Celeste? Nobody cares for me there any more, I've been such a selfish, ungracious fellow this long while.â€
“We all care for you, Ted, really, very much—papa and mamma and Harold and I.â€
“Well, that's very kind indeed of you; but then I suppose, as you're my relations, it's only Christian for you to care a little.â€
“But people care who are not your relations—Miss Dorothy Allyn cares, and Albert.â€
“How do you happen to know that.â€
“Oh, because one day after Miss Allyn had been playing the organ in St. George's—and oh! doesn't she play beautifully!—we talked a little while on the Castle terrace, and we talked about you, and I asked her if you were ever so nice as Harold, because we couldn't help being a little disappointed in you, Cousin Ted, and she said yes, that you used to be every bit as nice, and if you had not been spoiled up at Oxford you would have turned out all right. She didn't say just those words, you know, but that was the meaning.†Ted was silent for a few moments, and when at last he spoke he said slowly, “Yes, I will come home, Marie-Celeste, as soon as I can; I promise.â€
0183
“Thank you, very much,†as though Ted had done her the greatest personal favor; and then, seeming to feel that their talk had come to a natural end, she asked quite casually, “Will you have the custard now?†and Ted remarking quite as casually, “Yes, thank you, I will,†she lifted the tray carefully into his lap. “Don't take very long to eat it, please,†she urged, “for fear Mrs. Hartley should wonder why I do not come hack and Ted obeyed orders with an alacrity rather menacing to his digestive powers.
“What shall I say to Mrs. Hartley?†Marie-Celeste asked with a puzzled frown.
“Say everything, Marie-Celeste; tell her all about me. Explain to Donald first, and get him to take Harold off' somewhere, and then tell all the others—Mr. and Mrs. Hartley and Chris and Martha. It is not that I lack the courage to tell them myself, it's only that it will be easier for them to learn it from you, you have such an innocent way of going straight to the heart of a matter. Besides, how could they hear it better than from my good little angel?â€
“Your good little angel! Oh, you don't know me, Cousin Ted! I'm anything but an angel. I was bad as I could be for three whole days together a few weeks ago—you ask Donald! Listen! they are calling me up at the cottage. Take that last spoonful of custard quickly, please; it's good for you. Good-by, now,†printing a hearty little kiss on his grateful face, “and remember your promise;†and then, carefully lifting the tray, she sped back to the cottage, cheerily calling, “Yes, I'm coming,†to Donald, who was on his way to meet her.
“Marie-Celeste, what have you done?†and Donald's face looked the picture of despair as he came toward her; nevertheless, he was gallant enough to relieve her of the tray, with its empty dishes.
“You mean about my finding out about Cousin Ted?â€
Donald simply nodded yes; he had no heart for words.
“Well, I couldn't help it, Donald; Mrs. Hartley asked me to carry some custard and sponge-cake to the gentleman under the apple-tree—was it my fault that the gentleman happened to be Ted, I'd like to know?†for never were there more accusing eyes than Donald's.
“Oh, no; not your fault, but it's a pity to have the whole thing spoiled. We've kept the secret so carefully.â€
“And do you think it can't be a secret any longer because I happen to be in it?â€
That was exactly what Donald felt sure of, but he contrived to say, “I didn't suppose you'd see the need of its being kept—I'm glad if you do;†but there was no real gladness evident, for Donald's tone was hopeless in the extreme.
“All the same, you don't think I'll keep it, Donald,†her little face really grieved. “You think because I'm a girl that I'll tell mamma, and then before I know it somebody else,†and therein Marie-Celeste proved herself a veritable little mind-reader. “Well, now, Donald, you'll see! and perhaps you'll come to understand girls better this summer, and have more respect for them in the future.â€
Donald took his lecture very meekly, knowing well that he deserved it, but still doubtful of Marie-Celeste's boasted ability in the secret-keeping line.
“Cousin Ted has more confidence in me than you, Donald,†still exercising her mind-reading proclivities. “He's asked me to tell the Hartleys all about him this very day. He doesn't want any unnecessary secrets kept any longer, and you're to take Harold off somewhere while I tell them.â€
“It seems to me Ted ought to tell them himself,†said Donald, shaking his head in disapproval; for you see he really feared that Ted lacked the necessary courage, although he could understand how much it must mean to him to have the Hartleys realize that he had such a good friend as Marie-Celeste at court. But Donald afterward exonerated Ted from any lack of courage, and was of course delighted when he found that she had pleaded his cause so eloquently as to convince even the old keeper that Ted was fully justified in the course he had thought best to pursue.
0185
Never was fairy tale listened to with more rapt attention than Marie-Celeste's narration of the ups and downs of Ted's life as she knew them, and never was heart more gladly grateful than hers when she realized that these good friends were more than willing, for the sake of the end in view, to condone the deception practised upon them. It is such a fine thing when people show themselves fair-minded and reasonable under circumstances that put their fair-mindedness to so much of a test.
“Well, well, well, it's a queer world,†said old Mr. Hartley, resting his elbows on his knees, and drawing circles and squares with his cane on the gravel beneath the old settle—“it's so remarkable that Mr. Morris (for he could not drop the name at once) should have fallen right into our hands here. Seems to me as though God never changed any of the real laws of things, but as though He ordered the working of them together for good in a very wonderful way, just as the Scripture says He do;†and a good many other people, who have not lived in this world more than half as long as old Mr. Hartley, are willing to go the whole length of this statement, and to defend it, if need be, with page after page from their own experience.
It was just at this point in the conversation that Donald and Harold came upon the scene, and hearing all of Mr. Hartley's last remark, Donald felt sure that the old keeper, of whom he, as well as Ted and Harry Allyn, stood in not a little awe, was not going to take offence at the new turn affairs had taken; while Harold, to whom it sounded as though they had been having a somewhat prosy sermon, rather congratulated himself that Donald had carried him off to see a neighbor's kennels down the river. But now there was time for little more than good-bys, and Chris, who had slipped away to harness Jennie, was at the door; and with farewells as hearty as though they had been friends for a lifetime, Harold and Marie-Celeste climbed into the Saxon wagon, and amid much demonstration on every side were off for the Nuneham station; but Harold wondered that Donald did not drive into Nuneham with them, and said so.
“I suppose,†said Marie-Celeste, addressing Chris with a knowing look in her eyes, “he has things to attend to about the farm this time in the afternoon?â€
“Yes, he has,†answered Chris, with a look just as knowing, for both were well aware that as soon as their backs were turned Donald would fly to Ted's rescue from his overlong quarantine down under the apple-tree, and all the significant glances went on right under Harold's eyes, with never a suspicion on his part. Indeed, Chris and Marie-Celeste, just for the fun of it, indulged in some decidedly pointed remarks, relying (and in Harold's case with considerable risk ) upon the literalness of the average boy of sixteen to let their real meaning escape him.
“Custard and sponge-cake is not very staying,†said Ted, after Donald had told him the good news of how kindly the Hartleys had received Marie-Celeste's surprising revelations, and they were on their way to the cottage.
“Why, you haven't had any dinner, Mr. Harris?†a paralyzing recollection coming over him.
“Who promised to bring it to me, Donald?â€
“Oh, Mr. Harris, it's all my fault! Martha gave it to me just before our own dinner was ready, and I set it on the feed-box a moment, while I shook down some hay for Jennie in the barn, and Chris called me, and that was the last I thought of it, and it must be there now.â€
But Donald was mistaken; one of a litter of rather young setter puppies, but with the sense of scent well developed, had scaled the sides of the low feed-box, and now lay on its side by the empty plate, feeling somewhat the worse for its foraging expedition.
“But dinners are not so reviving as good news, Donald,†said Ted excusingly; and indeed, notwithstanding diminished rations, he felt wonderfully toned up both in mind and body, now that the good friends in the cottage knew just who he was and there was no longer need for any sort of duplicity.
With all Ted's faults he was as open as the day, and the part which Harry and discretion and the Doctor had mapped out for him to play had been harder than you can imagine.
9188
The old belfry clock was striking eight as Harold and Marie-Celeste put in an appearance at the lodgings where the little party were staying in Oxford, and of course there was a great deal to be told; but alas! too, for Marie-Celeste so much that must not be told, under any circumstances. If you think it easy to be sole possessor of a piece of news that would rejoice the hearts of your nearest and dearest, and yet for extreme precaution's sake have given your promise on no account to divulge it, why then all that can be said is that you were never in Marie-Celeste's shoes. If it had been an uncomfortable piece of news it would have been vastly easier. There ought to be no pleasure at all in conveying bad news to people, though here and there, it must be confessed, one sometimes meets individuals who seem to rejoice in any news whatsoever, and the more startling and surprising the better.
But Marie-Celeste succeeded in getting through the first few hours without telling: the two hours with Harold on the train, a very trying half hour when she was all alone with her mother, and another trying half hour the next morning, when she was sitting in the breakfast-room with Dorothy; and after that the worst was over, so many delightful things came along to claim everyone's thought and attention. And one of the most delightful things of all—at least in the children's estimation—came with that Sunday afternoon in Oxford, and Dorothy was the one to be thanked for it.
It seemed that in one of the colleges somebody lived who Marie-Celeste would have given more to see, next to the Queen (and, as you know, she had seen her without the asking), than any one else in England, and that was the man who calls himself Lewis Carroll, and who has written those incomparable books, “Through the Looking-Glass†and “Alice in Wonderland.†If it is possible that any little friend of these stories of mine has never happened to have read them, then let me urge you at once to give Aunt Bess or Uncle Jack no rest till both are in your keeping, with your name written very legibly across the fly-leaf of each, so that you can keep them for your very own till you've no more use for any books whatsoever. And while you are about it, why not put in a plea for Kingsley's “Water Babies,†too, which is of the same beautiful dreamland type; and please do not think for a moment that you are too old for any of the three. Why, some one I know, who is well on to forty, just revels in those same three books, and, for that matter, there are some things in them that you cannot fully take in even then. And in this connection perhaps it is fair to tell you, in case you do not happen to know it already, that it is twenty years and more since these books were written; but then of course you are sensible enough to see that that is ever so much more to their credit. Indeed, it was just because they were written so long ago that the visit of which I am about to tell you came to pass. Twenty years before Dorothy's father had been rector of a church there in Oxford, and though Dorothy was only two years old at that time, and her brother Harry but a year and a half older, they had been great pets, babies though they were, with the author of “Wonderland†and “Through the Looking-Glass,†and Mr. Dodgson—for that is Lewis Carroll's real name—had been in and out of Canon Allyn's house almost every day in the week. And what was true of Canon Allyn's house was true of many another house in Oxford where there were children; and so you see it was because of this old-time intimacy with Lewis Carroll that Dorothy had made bold to write and ask if she might bring Harold and Marie-Celeste to call upon him. But for some reason or other Mr. Dodgson no longer cares to see as much of the little people as formerly; in fact, he rather runs away from them when they seek him out; and when he received Dorothy's letter, what did he do but write her that he was very sorry to say that he would not be at home on the afternoon in question, but that if it would be any pleasure to her little friends to see his rooms, she might bring them there and welcome, and that he would leave some old photographs that he thought would interest them ready to her hand in a portfolio on the writing-table.
And so they were not to see “Lewis Carroll,†which was of course considerable of a disappointment to Marie-Celeste and Harold, and to Dorothy as well; but all the same the recollection of that Sunday afternoon in Oxford will doubtless long hold its place among the most delightful memories of their lives.
It was only two o'clock when they set out, and a walk up the beautiful High Street, past the spires and domes, brick windows and massive gateways of the old churches and colleges that line it, and then a turn at the corner of Aldgate Street, soon brought them to Christ Church. Mr. Carroll's rooms—for he prefers doubtless to be Mr. Carroll to those of us who know him only through his books—. were of course the first object of interest, and Dorothy, who remembered where they were from a more fortunate visit of a few years before, when they had not been obliged, as to-day, to count without their host, led the way through the Entrance Gateway, well worthy of its old name of “The Faire Gate.â€
Over this entrance looms the beautiful tower containing Great Tom, an old, old bell that tolls a curfew of one hundred and one strokes every night as a signal for the closing of the college. And Great Tom looks down on one of those quadrangles which at Christ Church, as indeed at all the colleges, forms one of the most attractive features. In many cases the walls of the buildings which surround the quadrangles on the four sides are almost hid beneath a luxurious growth of English ivy, while from April to December the lawns that carpet them are green with the wonderful depth of color peculiar to lawns that have been cultivated for centuries.
The windows of Mr. Carroll's rooms open on the “Ton Quad,†as it is called, because of the nearness to Great Tom, and they found the janitor, who had been informed of their coming, ready to unlock the door for them.
“Do you think we have driven Mr. Dodgson away by planning to come here this afternoon?†asked Dorothy, feeling that this invasion of a man's room in his absence bordered on intrusion, and hesitating to step over the threshold.
“Like as not, mum,†replied the old janitor honestly, “he's grown that averse to mingling much with folk, be they big or little.â€
“But he wrote me very cordially to come, only that he had an engagement and would not be at home.â€
“Then he probably told you the truth, mum. He often goes off on a ten-mile tramp of a Sunday afternoon with one of the professors. He left word that he'd not be home till six, mum, so you needn't be thinking of leaving till half-past five, mum;†and so it was plainly evident that Lewis Carroll wanted to run no risk of seeing them at either end of their visit, and Dorothy could not help feeling a little piqued.
“I am sorry Mr. Dodgson is so much afraid of meeting us,†she said with a sigh; “we used to live in Oxford, and he was a good friend of mine when I was a child. It seems strange he ceases to care for his little friends as soon as they are grown up.â€
“You must leave an old bachelor to his foibles, mum. It seems as though they must have them of one sort or another. I'm a bachelor myself, mum, and have me own little peculiarities, they tell me, mum.â€
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, please look here! These are the photographs Mr. Carroll wrote you about!†called Marie-Celeste, for she and Harold had had no misgivings whatever about making their way into a room to which they had been granted privileged entrance; and after a reconnoitring tour round its borders had naturally brought up at the portfolio, to which their attention had been specially directed in Mr. Carroll's note.
“The door has a spring lock, mum,†explained the janitor; “will you kindly make sure to close it on leaving?†and with this parting injunction he left them to their own devices.
It seems that in the old days, when Lewis Carroll loved to play host to the children, they would often come to take afternoon tea in his lodgings, and then likely as not, if the light were good, he would spirit them into a 'room fitted up for the purpose and take their pictures; and then, if they promised to be good and not to bother, they might follow him into the queer-smelling little room where he made the pictures come out, and they would be permitted to have a look at the dripping glass plate, from which they could seldom make head nor tail, held up against the dark-room's lantern for inspection. But, all the same, their faith in the result was supreme; for what could a wizard not do who could weave fairy-tales so wonderfully as not to have them seem like fairy-tales at all. And so this portfolio, extended to its uttermost, was literally stuffed with pictures; and what did they discover, to their surprised delight, lying right on the top of the pile, but three or four unmistakable photographs of Harry and Dorothy Allyn, which had evidently been placed there by design. Dorothy was pleased at this little attention, and partly forgave Mr. Carroll his antipathy to renewing old friendships.