[Illustration: 9018]
It is one thing to extend an invitation. It is quite another to have it
accepted. Harold realized this with a sigh as he woke the next morning.
Still, hope was in the wind, where it had not been for a long time, and,
what was more, the first suggestion of spring was in it too, and every
one knows what a tonic that is; so the sigh, on the whole, did not
have much of a show, and Harold set off for school with a heart that he
hardly knew for lightness.
Besides, Ted had taken quite civil leave of him before going back to
Oxford, and had said he fancied would be down again next Sunday, and
that he would be on hand, like as not, if Uncle Fritz decided to come
over--all of which, for any one who knew Ted as Harold knew him, was
graciousness itself, and made Harold wish he had not waited so long
before taking matters into his own hands. And in addition to all this,
the morning was fine enough to brace anybody up, no matter what their
troubles. The Eton boys in their tall hats (atoning, as it were, for the
extreme briefness of their jackets) and wide-rolling linen collars were
skurrying through the streets as though they had the right of way,
as indeed they have in dear old royal Windsor; and here and there the
flowing gown of a colleger spread itself to the April wind and floated
out behind, to all appearances as glad as any peacock to show what it
could do in that direction. Indeed, who knows of a more inspiriting
sight anywhere than Eton College on an April morning? The quaint old
buildings seem to bask in the broad spring sunshine; the trees that dot
the grass-bare turf where the Upper School fronts the street are already
casting tiny leaf-shadows, and on the other side, where the garden
slopes down to the Thames, many a little branch and bush begins to
glow with color. Even the old bronze statue of Henry VI. in the outer
quadrangle, with all its panoply of robes of state and globe and
sceptre, appears to look a little more chipper than ever and a trifle
more conscious of the distinction of being the “munificent founder” of
so glorious an institution. No wonder the boys love the old place, and
even the dingy recitation rooms, whose quaint, high desks and slippery
benches are notched with the penknives of many a boy, whose name, as a
man, has come to be known through the length and breadth of England.
To Harold it was a matter of no small pride, I assure you, that his
particular seat on the form during that spring term was the same that
had once been Gladstone's--“the prettiest little boy,” by the way, in
the mind of his partial teacher, that ever went up to Eton. But all
this, as you can plainly see, has nothing whatever to do with the title
of this chapter, so it “behooves us,” as the preachers used to say, to
turn our back on Harold and the charms of the renowned old college, and
our faces toward the ocean and a far-off land--far off, that is, as far
as Windsor and the English are concerned, but very near and dear to the
hearts of some of the rest of us. Of course it is the letter that is
turning our thoughts that way at this particular moment. It is tied
firmly in a packet within a great leather bag, and, having been just
in time to catch the mail-train, is being spirited down to Queenstown,
where one of the great White Star steamers has been waiting full four
long hours, so important are these reams upon reams of letters we and
our English cousins keep sending one to the other across the water. Wind
and tide favor the huge, swift ship, and early in the morning, the sixth
day out, Fire Island light is sighted. It is a cloudless morning,
the white sands of the South-shore beaches shine like silver in the
sunlight, and the fresh sea breeze that is stirring holds its own the
whole length of Long Island, and blows its purifying way into every
street and alley of the vast city that lies at its farther end. A most
uninteresting city, this city of Brooklyn, some people affirm; even
those of us who love it best cannot claim that it is great in anything
but “bigness” but there are homes there we will match against homes the
world over, not for show or for luxury, but for pure and transcendent
comfort. It is only a corner of the wide-spreading city of which we are
speaking, and a little corner at that, but the charm of it lies in the
fact that many of the streets open right to the harbor, and that many of
the houses, as well, command the same glorious view. To be sure, one
has need to overlook, in quite too literal fashion, the warehouses
that front the water below the bluff, and here and there an unsightly
elevator, but why let the eye rest on these, with the dancing blue water
beneath you, and the Jersey hills beyond, and beyond that again, like as
not, a glorious sunset. To be sure, the houses that line these streets
stand most of them shoulder to shoulder, in barbarous, city-like
fashion, and with far too much sameness in their general make-up and
plan. But that is neither here nor there; we simply are claiming--we who
love it--that it is a region of ideal homes. And more than this, there
is a rare kindliness of spirit and an open-handed hospitality prevalent
among the people. They are friends and neighbors in the best sense of
the word; too high-minded and preoccupied to be gossipy or prying, they
are interested in each other's affairs with the interest that means a
sharing of each other's joys and sorrows.
So much for the corner--let who will gainsay it--and more for a little
maid who lives there, and who is none other, as you may have
imagined, than Marie-Celeste, the little Queen-Pin of this story. And
Marie-Celeste she is always. For some reason or other neither she nor
the friend of her mother for whom she is called is ever known by any
shorter title. Indeed, the two names have even become to be written
with a hyphen, and seemingly to belong to each other, and to be quite as
inseparable as the three syllables of Dorothy or the four of Dorothea.
At the time of our introduction to the little maid in question she has
donned the prettiest of white embroidered dresses and a broad white sash
(which she first tied in a great bow in front and then pulled round to
where it belongs in the back), and has come down to the front steps to
watch for somebody. She knows almost to a minute how long she will
have to wait, for she heard the signal--three little, short, sharp
whistles--about five minutes ago. She decides it is worth while to
make herself comfortable, and also worth while, looking askance at the
doubtful doormat, to bring a well-swept rug from within. Then she seats
herself, and, clasping two fair little hands round one knee, just waits,
letting eyes rove where they will and thoughts follow. That is a very
pretty cage in the window across the way, but she feels sorry for the
bird. People oughtn't to leave a canary hanging full in the sunshine on
a warm day like this; and then she meditates awhile on the advantages of
living on the side of the street that is shady in the afternoon. And
now two or three gentlemen are coming by from the ferry, all of whom she
knows by sight, for the short terrace where she lives is by no means
a general thoroughfare, and just behind them is Mr. Eversley, May
Eversley's father. She wishes he would look up, for she has a bow
ready for him; but he doesn't, and she must needs defer her social
proclivities yet a little while longer. And here comes a great yellow
delivery wagon, with horses fine enough for a carriage and two men in
livery. What a deafening noise it makes on the Belgian pavement! There!
for a comfort it is going to stop for a minute at the next house. My!
what a lot of bundles! And now the street is quite empty again, not a
person on either side of the one, short block; but the whistle that has
been ringing out more and more clearly at quite regular, three-minute
intervals sounds very near indeed, and in another second a gray-suited
individual, with soldier-like cap to match and a glitter of shining
brass buttons, swings round the opposite corner, and makes a bee-line
across the street. Our little friend is instantly on her feet, with one
hand extended, and a “Good-afternoon, Mr. Hartley.”
“The same to you, Marie-Celeste,” replies the gray-coated newcomer,
clasping the little, friendly hand in his.
“And how did it come out?” she asks in the next breath.
“It came out all right,” and Mr. Hartley leaned back and rested both
elbows on the rail behind him.
“I knew you would win,” said Marie-Celeste complacently; “I felt
perfectly sure of it, Chris.”
“And what is more, Bradford came in second.”
“You don't mean it!” for Bradford was assistant postman on the route
that included the Terrace, and Marie-Celeste was naturally quite
overwhelmed at the thought that both their men should have won. The
winning in question had occurred at a foot-race the night before, an
accomplishment somewhat in the line of the daily training of the average
postman, and for which Christopher Hartley in particular had long shown
a special aptitude.
[Illustration: 0023]
“It was quite a big prize, wasn't it?” questioned Marie-Celeste, really
longing to know the exact amount; but Mr. Hartley, not divining that,
simply answered, his kind face radiant as a boy's, “The largest yet,
Marie-Celeste--enough to take me home for two months this summer, and
pay Bradford, besides, for doing double work while I'm gone. He can
manage the route easily; the mails fall off more than half in the
summer, you know.”
“Well, isn't that splendid!” with a world of meaning in her inflection
and a face every whit as radiant as Mr. Hartley's own. “And now won't
you please tell me everything about the race, from the _start_ to the
_finish_,” proud to show that she remembered the terms she had heard
him use; and only too glad of the opportunity, Chris proceeded to give a
graphic narrative of all the details of the exciting contest. Wide-eyed
and interested, Marie-Celeste sat and listened, furtively scanning the
street now and then for fear of interruption by some of the children of
the neighborhood.
“Have you told any of the others?” she asked eagerly, when the story's
end had been reached, and hoping in her heart of hearts that she was to
have the pleasure of imparting news of such paramount importance to the
neighborhood.
“Never a one; I dodged a crowd of them round the corner there for the
sake of telling you first;” wherefrom it was easy to discover that Mr.
Hartley had a somewhat partial regard for his earnest little listener.
It was a decidedly partial regard, for that matter, and with reason.
Had any other child friend along his route, no matter how friendly,
questioned him day after day as to how he was getting on with his
training for the race? Had any other among them promised to be on hand
at the latest delivery on the afternoon succeeding it, so as to learn
just what the issue had been, and at a time when he would be able to
stop and tell about it? Would any one else in the world have thought
of suggesting that he should give three short little whistles when he
reached the Browns', in Remsen Street, so that she should know just how
near he was? Surely no one; and it was just this surpassing interest
in every living body, to the utter forgetting of all that concerned
herself, that made Marie-Celeste different from other children, that
made everybody love her, and that makes it worth while for me to try to
tell this story of one summer in her blessed little life.
“Well, I'm just as glad as I can be,” she said joyously when at last
Mr. Hartley thought he had better be moving on, and thought at the same
time, too, I venture, that it was something to have won that race, if
only to have caused such gladness.
“You haven't any letters for us, have you?” she added, as he turned to
go down the step and she caught sight of the leather bag swung across
his shoulder.
“Why, yes, I have,” diving into its depths, and angry at himself for
his forgetfulness; “it's an important letter, too, I reckon; it's from
England.”
“Why, so it is!” her eyes fairly dancing with delight and surprise.
“It's from Harold, and we haven't heard from him in ever so long; but
oh, dear, it's for papa, isn't it, and he's out driving.”
“You won't have very long to wait,” said Chris, smiling at her
impatience, “if you're expecting him home to dinner.”
“But we're not, that's the bother of it. He and mamma are going to dine
at the Crescent Club afterward, and I shall have to be sound asleep when
they come home.” Then she asked after a moment of serious cogitation,
“Do you suppose, Chris, that any of the children along your route open
their fathers' letters, when they are sure they're from their cousins?”
“I can't say about that,” laughed Chris, as he went down the steps. “You
know best; good-night, I'm off now.”
“Good-night, Chris,” rather absent-mindedly, and with eyes and thoughts
still intent upon the letter. Would it be such a dreadful thing to open
it? It was so hard not to know right away what was in it. She had never
seen this English Cousin Harold, but when they had exchanged photographs
at Christmas-time he had sent such a beautiful letter that she had come
to feel that they were the best of friends. But no, hard as it was, she
felt certain it would really be best not to open it; so she would put
the letter in her pocket, and when she went to bed she would slide it
under her pillow, and then only take little cat-naps until her father
and mother should come home, and she could tell them about it, and
hear what was in it. But alas! for the little cat-naps; for the lights
blinked brightly in the harbor, and the ferry-boats whistled and let off
steam in deafening fashion, and the stars came out, and the moon came
up, and papa and mamma came home, and chatted gayly besides, with the
door wide open into her room, and yet Marie-Celeste never wakened, and
Harold's important letter lay sealed and unread, and as flat as a fluffy
head could press it until the light of another morning.