suggested, at last. "It was--it was when I felt just as you do now,
that I began to learn the Secret."
Mary Alice made no reply; there seemed to be nothing that she could say
But after they had sat silent for a long while, she got up and kissed
her godmother with a new passion which had in it tenderness as well as
adoration.
"I don't believe I can be brave and lovely about it, as you must have
been to make people love you so. But I'm going to _try_," she said.
The success with which Mary Alice's trying met was really beautiful to
see. At first, it was pretty hard for her to care much about the
Secret, or about people. Every assemblage just seemed to her an empty
crowd where he was not. But when she began to wonder to how many of
those selfsame people the others seemed the same as to her, she was
interested once more; the Secret began to work.
It worked so well, in fact, that Mary Alice came to be quite famous in
a small way. People in Godmother's distinguished and delightful "set"
talked enthusiastically of Mary Alice's quiet charm, and she was asked
here and asked there, and had a quite wonderful time.
Her "poor" friend came in, whenever he could, for tea and toast; and
sometimes he made what he called "a miserable return" for this
hospitality, by asking Godmother and Mary Alice to dine with him at his
palace on upper Fifth Avenue and afterwards to sit in his box at the
opera. He was a widower, and his two sons were married and lived in
palaces of their own. His only daughter was abroad finishing her
education; and his great, lonely house was to serve a brief purpose for
her when she "came out" and until she married. Then, he thought, he
would either give it up or turn it over to her; certainly he would not
keep it for himself.
At first, Mary Alice found it hard to remember the Secret "with so many
footmen around." But by and by she got used to them and, other things
being equal, could have nearly as good a time in a palace as in a flat.
For this, she had a wonderful example in Godmother of whom some one had
once said, admiringly, that she was "never mean to anybody just because
he's rich." It was true. Godmother was just as "nice" to the rich as
to the poor, to the "cowering celebrity" (as she was wont to say) as to
the most important nobody. It was the Secret that helped her to do it.
It was the Secret that helped Mary Alice.
And so the winter went flying by. Twice, letters came--from him; and
Mary Alice answered them, giving the answers to Godmother to send.
Once he wrote from London, and once from somewhere on the Bosphorus.
They were lonesome letters, both; but he didn't ask for the Secret,
though he mentioned it each time.
IX
TELLING THE SECRET TO MOTHER
In March, Godmother said: "I am going abroad for the summer, dear, and
I've just had a conference with my man of affairs. He reports some
unexpectedly good dividends from my small handful of stock in a company
that is enjoying a boom, and so if we're careful--you and I--there will
be enough so I can take you with me." Mary Alice was too surprised,
too happy to speak. "Now, you'll want to go home, of course,"
Godmother went on, "and so we'll agree on a sailing date and then you
may fly back to mother as soon as you wish, and stay till it's time to
go abroad."
They decided to sail the first of May; so Mary Alice went home almost
immediately, and on an evening late in March got off the train on to
that familiar platform whence she had so fearfully set forth only four
short months ago.
Father was at the station to meet her; and at home, by the soft-coal
fire burning beneath the white marble mantel in the sitting-room,
Mother was sewing and waiting for her.
Mary Alice was thinking, as she and Father neared the house, of that
miserable evening in the fall when she had stolen past her mother and
gone up to her room and wept passionately, in the dark, because life
had no enchantment for her. There would be no stealing past dear
Mother now! For the Secret was for Mother, too--yes, very much indeed
for Mother, as Mary Alice and Godmother had agreed in their wonderful
"tucking in" talk the night before Mary Alice came away. All the way
home, on the train, she had hardly been able to wait till she got to
Mother with this beautiful new thing in her heart.
Perhaps Mother had dreaded her girl's home-coming, in a way, almost as
much as she yearned for it. But if she had, Mary Alice never knew it;
and if she had, Mother herself soon forgot it. For in all the twenty
years of Mary Alice's life, her mother had never, it seemed, had so
much of her girl as in the month that followed her home-coming. Hour
after hour they worked about the house or sat before that grate fire in
the unchanged sitting-room, and talked and talked and talked. Mary
Alice told every little detail of those four months until her mother
lived them over with her and the light and life of them animated her as
they had animated Mary Alice.
Little by little, in that month, Mary Alice came at least to the
beginning of a wonderful new understanding: came to see how
parents--and _god_parents!--cease to have any particular future of
their own and live in the futures of the young things they love. Mary
Alice's bleak years had been bitter for her mother, too; perhaps
bitterer than for her. And her new enchantment with life was like new
blood in her mother's veins.
Mother cried when Mary Alice told her the Secret. "Oh, it's true! it's
true!" she said. "If only everybody could know it, what a different
world this would be!"
And as for the--Other! When Mary Alice told her mother about him and
what his coming into her life and his going out of it had meant, Mother
just held her girl close and could not speak.
The precious month flew by on wings as of the wind. Mary Alice was
"the town wonder," as her brother Johnny said, and she enjoyed that as
only a girl who has been the town wall-flower can; but after all,
everything was as nothing compared with Mother and the exultation that
had so evidently come into her life because out of her love and pain
and sacrifice a soul had come into the world to draw so richly from the
treasures of other hearts and to give so richly back again. There is
no triumph like it, as Mary Alice would perhaps know, some day. A
mother's purest happiness is very like God's own.
But at last the sailing date was close at hand. Mary Alice's heart was
heavy and glad together. "If I could only take you!" she whispered to
her mother.
Mother shook her head. "I wouldn't go and leave your father and the
children," she said. "You go and enjoy it all for me. I like it
better that way."
And so, once more Mary Alice smiled through tear-filled eyes at the
dear faces on the station platform, and was gone again into the big
world beyond her home. But this time what a different girl it was who
went!
X
THE OLD WORLD AND THE KING
They had an unusually delightful voyage. The weather was perfection
and their fellow-voyagers included many persons interesting to talk
with and many others interesting to observe and speculate about.
One particularly charming experience came to Mary Alice through the
Captain's appreciation of her eagerness. Godmother had taught her to
love the stars. As well as they could, in New York where, to most
people, only scraps of sky are visible at a time, they had been wont to
watch with keen interest for the nightly appearance of stars they could
see from their windows or from the streets as they went to and fro.
And when they got aboard ship and had the whole sky to look at, they
revelled in their night hours on the deck, and in picking out the
constellations and their "bright, particular stars." This led the
Captain to tell Mary Alice something of the stars as the sailors'
friends; and she had one of the most memorable evenings of her life
when he explained to her something of the science of navigation and
made her see how their great greyhound of the ocean, just like the
first frail barks of the Tyrians, picked its way across trackless
wastes of sea by the infallible guidance of "the friendly stars." All
this particularly interested Mary Alice because of Some One who lived
much in the open and spent many and many a night on the broad deserts,
looking up at the stars.
They landed at Naples, and lingered a fortnight in that lovely
vicinity; then, up to Rome, to Florence and Venice, to Milan and the
Italian Lakes, through Switzerland into France, and so to Paris.
Godmother had once spent a winter at Capri; she had spent several
winters in Florence. She knew Venice well. She had hosts of dear,
familiar things to show Mary Alice in each place.
At last they came to Paris. Godmother lamented that it was in July
they came; but Mary Alice, who had no recollections of Paris in April
and May, found nothing to lament. They stayed more than a month--and
made a number of the enchanting little journeys which can be made out
of Paris forever and ever without repeating, it seems.
Then, with a trunk in which were two "really, truly" Paris
dresses--very, very modest ones, to be sure, but unmistakably touched
with Parisian chic--and a mind in which were hundreds of wonderful
Paris memories, Mary Alice crossed to England. They went at once to
London where, it seemed to Mary Alice, she must stay forever, to be
satisfied. Godmother had hosts of charming friends in London, even
beyond what she had in Italy and France; but for the first fortnight
she gave up her time entirely to Mary Alice's sightseeing. By and by
her friends began to find out she was there and to clamour insistently
for her. And as the exodus from town was as complete as it ever gets,
most of the invitations were from the country. So that Mary Alice
began to see something of that English country-house life she had read
so much about, and to meet personages whose names filled her with
awe--until she remembered the Secret. And thus she came to the Great
Event of her life.
Godmother had what Mary Alice called "a duchess friend" of whom she was
very, very fond. The Duchess was a woman about Godmother's age, and
quite as lovely to look at as a duchess should be. She was mistress of
many and vast estates, and wore--on occasions--a coronet of diamonds
and strings of pearls "worth a king's ransom," just like a duchess in a
story. But she seemed to Mary Alice to have hardly the mildest
interest in the jewels she wore and the palaces she lived in; Mary
Alice found it hard to bear in mind that to the Duchess these were just
as matter-of-fact, as usual, as unvariable, as the home sitting-room
and the "good" hat had once been to Mary Alice. And like Mary Alice,
the Duchess found her happiness in reaching out for something new and
different. The Duchess liked the world that Godmother lived in--the
world of Godmother's lovely mind; and she loved Godmother's
companionship.
That was how it came about that Mary Alice found herself very often in
exalted society. The exalted personages did not notice her much; but
every once in a while, by remembering the Secret, she got on happy
terms with some of them.
And at last a very unusual thing happened. The King was coming to
honour the Duke and Duchess with a visit; coming to see one of those
ancient and glorious estates the like of which no king owns, and which
are the pride of all the kingdom. Many sovereigns had stayed at this
splendid old place on England's south coast--a place as famous for its
beauty as for its six hundred years of history; so it was no unusual
thing for it to house a king. The unusual part of it all was Mary
Alice being there. By the King's permission a wonderful house party
was asked to meet him. Godmother couldn't be asked; she had never been
presented, and the King was unaware of her existence. The Duchess
would not have dared to present Godmother's name on the list submitted
to the King. Much less, therefore, would she have dared to present
Mary Alice's. "But----!" said the Duchess, and went on to unfold a
plan.
If Mary Alice would not mind staying on with the Duchess while
Godmother paid another visit; and if she would not mind having a room
somewhere in a remote wing; and would not mind not being asked to
mingle with the party in any way, she might see something of such
sights as perhaps she would never be able to see otherwise. Mary Alice
was delighted partly because she wanted to see the sights and partly
because the thought of going away from this wonderful place made her
heart ache. So she was moved out of the fine guest suite she and
Godmother had been lodged in, and over to a room in a far wing of the
vast house. From this wing one could look down on to the terraces for
which the love and genius of none other than quaint John
Evelyn--greatest of England's Garden Philosophers--were responsible.
To these terraces the guests would certainly come, and to the
world-famous rose garden into which also Mary Alice could look from her
window in the far wing. But even if she were to see no royalty, she
was grateful for the privilege of staying on a few days longer in this
Paradise by the sea. And not the least delight of her new quarters was
that they were high enough up so that from them she could overlook the
sheltering Ilex-trees which made these marvellous gardens possible so
close to the shore, and see the Channel ships a-sailing--three-masted
schooners laden with wood; fishing-smacks; London barges with their
picturesque red sails bellying in the wind; and an occasional ocean
liner trailing its black smoke across the horizon. What with the sea
and the gardens and the rich history of the place, Mary Alice felt that
she could never tire of it, even if she did not see the King. But it
would be delightful to see him, too. Some day the history of this
splendid old place would include this royal visit; and Mary Alice, who
had read of other such occasions and wished she might have been a mouse
in a corner to witness them--as, for instance, when Queen Elizabeth was
here--now felt the thrill of having that wish come true, in a way; and
so far from feeling "set aside" or slighted, liked her window in the
wing and her participation in the party above any other she might have
had.
Mary Alice dined, the first night of the house party, with the
Duchess's older children, and then went back to her room to sit at the
window and look down on the terraces where, after a while, some of the
men guests came to smoke.
It was late, but the twilight still lingered. Mary Alice could not
tell who many of the men were, but she could see the King and she
watched him interestedly as he paced up and down. She had been told
how no one must speak to a king until the king has first spoken to him;
and she felt that at best it must be a dreary business--being a king.
Presently, though, in the thickening shadows she saw a form that made
her heart stand still. _Could it be_? She was probably
mistaken--madly mistaken--but something in the way a man down there
carried himself made her think of Godmother's little drawing-room in
far-off New York and a man who was "playing the game." But the King
was talking to this man--talking most interestedly, it seemed. She
_must_ be mistaken!
Nevertheless, when the men had all gone in, she put on a white shawl
and slipped down on to the terrace. She felt as if she must know; and
of course she couldn't ask, for she did not know his name.
The terraces were deserted, and she paced up and down undisturbed,
trying to assure herself that Godmother would probably have known if he
were in England--his last letter had been from the Far East--and
especially if he were coming here. There were times, as she reminded
herself, when she was continually seeing him; out of every crowd,
suddenly his tall form would seem to emerge; in the loneliness of quiet
places, as by miracle he would seem to be where a moment ago she knew
there was no one. Then a sense of separation would intervene, and for
days she would be given over to the belief that she was never to see
him again. To-night was doubtless just one of the times when, for no
reason that she could understand, he seemed physically near to her.
She was standing very still in the shadow of an ivy-grown pillar,
looking up at the Pole star and wondering if he in his wanderings might
not be looking at it too, when a man's voice close beside her made her
jump. It was an unfamiliar voice. "Star-gazing?" it said, pleasantly.
She turned, and recognized the King.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she answered. At first she thought she was going
to be frightened. Then she remembered the Secret, and before she knew
it she was deep in conversation with the King.
As she talked, a puzzled expression she could not see came into the
King's face. He had a wonderful memory for names, a memory which
seldom failed him; but he couldn't place this girl. And it was dark,
too, so he couldn't see her. But he liked to hear her talk. She had
that rare thing, in his experience, a fresh, sweet view-point. The
bloom of enchantment was still on life for her, and as he drew her out,
he found that she was refreshing him as nothing had done for a weary
while.
Then, kingly obligation called him indoors to join the throng whose
everlasting sameness palled on him almost unendurably. Something he
said made Mary Alice feel this--made her see, as in a flash, a girl who
had gone home, once, from a party and wept because life was so dull.
She was sorry for the King!
"I seldom forget a name," he said, "but I--before we go in, won't you
please remind me of yours?"
Mary Alice laughed. "Your Majesty has never heard my name," she said,
"and I can't go in; I'm not of the party." And she explained.
"I see," he said. "I shall have to thank the Duchess. I have had a
most refreshing quarter of an hour."
"I'm glad," said Mary Alice, simply. "I felt afraid, at first--as
nearly everybody does, I suppose. And then I thought how dreadful that
must be--to have every one afraid of you, when you're really a very
nice, gentle person--I mean----! Well, I guess Your Majesty knows what
I mean. And then I remembered my Secret----"
"Secret?"
And so, of course, she had to tell. It was rather a long story, hurry
as she would, because the King interrupted with so many questions.
But she wouldn't tell what the Secret was until "the very last thing."
"Um," said the King, when she had finally divulged it. That was all he
said; but the way he said it made Mary Alice know that the Secret was
right.
XI
A MEETING AND A PARTING
The next day was full of activities which kept the house guests far
afield. But Mary Alice had an exciting day at home; for the King had
spoken to the Duchess about her and asked to have her presented to him
that evening.
The Duke and Duchess had spent a fortune on the entertainment of their
King; had provided for his beguiling every costly diversion that could
be thought of. But they had not been able to give him anything new,
and they felt that he was enduring the visit amiably rather than
actually enjoying it. It remained, apparently, for the Girl from
Nowhere to give him real pleasure.
So the Duchess--secretly sympathetic--left orders with her French maid
that Mary Alice was to be made ready to see the King.
Mary Alice chose the simplest thing that rigorous French maid would
allow and kept as close as possible to her own individual and
unpretending style. But even then, she was a pretty resplendent young
person as she stole timidly down to find the Duchess and be presented
to the King.
The guests were assembled in the great drawing-room, and Mary Alice was
frightened almost to death when she saw the splendour of the scene and
realized what part she had to play in it.
Then, in a daze, she was swept forward and presented, and found herself
looking into eyes that smiled as with an old friendliness. So she
smiled back again, and soon forgot the onlookers, answering His
Majesty's kindly questions.
[Illustration: ". . . found herself looking into eyes that smiled as
with an old friendliness."]
He turned from her, presently, to speak to some one else, and Mary
Alice caught sight then of a face she knew. For an instant, she stood
staring. For an instant, he stood staring back, as unbelieving as she.
Then, "You seem to be on friendly terms with His Majesty," he said.
"Have you showed him how to play the game, too?"
"No," Mary Alice answered, "but I've told him the Secret."
As soon as they could, they escaped--those two--out on to the terrace
where the stars were shining thickly overhead.
"On one of those--those times in New York when we talked together," he
said, "you told me that when something very marvellous had happened to
you and you couldn't believe you were awake, that it was really true,
you asked your Godmother to pinch you. It--er, wouldn't be at all
proper for me to ask you to please pinch me. But if you know any
perfectly proper equivalent, I wish you'd do it."
"I've pinched myself," she returned, "and it seems I am awake. So I
judge you must be, too."
"Then how, please----?"
And she told him.
"And you don't know yet who I am?"
"No."
So he told her. "I warned you it was nothing interesting," he said;
"it is just my work that people are interested in. I don't belong in
there," indicating the great house, "any more than you do. They like
me for a novelty, because I've dared and suffered; and because, as
things turned out, I was in a position to do what they are pleased to
call a great service to the Empire. I wish I liked them better--they
want to be very kind to me, and I was born of them, so they like me the
better for that. But I've been in the wilderness too much--I can't get
used to these strange folk at home."
"I used to think I couldn't get used to strange folk," Mary Alice
murmured, "but I seem to have got on fairly well for a girl from
Nowhere."
"Was it the Secret?"
She nodded.
"When may I know?"
"I--I can't tell."
"You told the King."
"He seemed to need it so."
"Don't I need it?"
"I--I can't tell."
He seemed discouraged, and as if he did not know what next to say.
They strolled in silence over to where she had been standing the night
before when the King spoke to her. From within the great house came
the entrancingly sweet song of a world-famous soprano engaged to pour
her liquid notes before the King.
Mary Alice stood very still, drinking it in. When it ceased, she stole
a look up at the bronzed face beside her; the light from a window in
her far wing of the house fell full on that rugged face, and it looked
very stern but also very sad. Mary Alice's heart, which had been
exultant only a short while ago, began suddenly--in one of those
strange revulsions which all hearts know--to ache indefinably. This
hour would probably be like those other brief hours in which he had
shared her life. To-morrow, or next day, he would be gone; and forever
and forever the memory of these moments on the terrace, with the stars
overhead and that exquisite song in their ears, would be coming back to
taunt her unbearably.
She made up her mind that before he went out of her life again, she
would tell him the Secret; so that at least, wherever he went, however
far from him the rest of her way through life might lie, they would
always have that thought in common; and whenever it came to help him,
as it must, he would think of her.
Timidly she laid a hand upon his arm. He had been far away, following
the trail of long, long thoughts, and her touch recalled him sharply.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I--I want to tell you the Secret."
"I don't think I want to know," he answered, rather shortly.
"Why--why----" Mary Alice faltered. Her lips quivered and her eyes
began to fill. "I--I must go in," she said.
He put out a hand to detain her, but either she did not see it in the
dark, or else she eluded it; for in a moment she was gone, across the
terrace towards the lighted French windows of the rooms of state.
How she managed to get through those next few minutes until she could
find the Duchess and ask to be excused, Mary Alice never knew. All of
her that was capable of feeling or caring about anything seemed to have
left this part of her that wore the Duchess's lovely white gown and
scarf of silver tissue, and to be out on the dark terrace under the
pale star beams, with a tall young man who spoke bitterly. This girl
in the sheen of white and silver to whom the King was speaking kindly,
was some one unreal and ghostly who acted like a real live girl, but
was not.