Although a transcendent interest in grown-up people is one of the
traits that make it worth while to tell this story of a summer in the
life of little Marie-Celeste, yet she was none the less a friend
of children of her own age, or over it or under it for that matter,
provided they seemed to stand in want of a friend. Otherwise, it must
be confessed, she concerned herself very little about them. Born with
a positive genius for spending and being spent, the claims and
opportunities of ordinary child friendships seemed hardly to give her
enough breathing room; and so it chanced that she passed very little
time with the faultlessly dressed and somewhat overcared-for children of
the steamer, who did not seem to need her, and a great deal of time with
Chris and Mr. Belden, who did. Be it said to the credit of the latter
gentleman that, after that first conversation with Marie-Celeste, he was
far more careful in the way he talked with her, and Mr. Harris was
quick to discover the fact, or the new friendship would have ended
as unexpectedly for Mr. Belden as it had begun. There was about
Marie-Celeste at all times the same implicit childish confidence that
unnerved the bold robber in “Editha's Burglar,” and yet she herself
was always quick to discover when this same confidence was being taken
advantage of, and when she would best fly to cover. More than once she
had shown in her contact with people an inerrancy of intuition (if
my youngest readers will excuse two such big words) that had greatly
gratified her father and mother, who had a theory of their own about
the education of children, and gave her rather more rein than some would
consider either safe or advisable. At the same time, every movement of
the little daughter was carefully watched and every project followed up
by a certain paternal relative, and never more so than during those days
of steamer life, when so many hours were passed with the new friend and
the postman. When with Chris it was forward clear to the bow to lean
over the rail and see the magnificent prow cut the water; or way to the
stern, to watch the far-shining train, the screws churned into white
foam behind them; or an hour 'midships, where the ever-varying amusements
with which the steerage passengers beguile the weary hours can be looked
down upon from the saloon deck of either first or second cabin. Then, at
five every clear day, afternoon tea with the captain, for which they had
a standing invitation, and by means of which both she and Chris came to
be on terms of wonderful intimacy with that august officer, so that they
joked over the rare souchong and delicious little toasted cakes (the
secret of whose making was kept close-guarded by the steward) with a
familiarity that, to themselves at least, never ceased to be a wonder.
With Mr. Belden everything was different. It was generally after an hour
or so of prowling about with Chris, and when she was a little tired and
in the mood for a quiet talk, that she would seek him out; and, as a
rule, she would find him comfortably tucked up in a steamer rug, with
another awaiting her coming on a chair beside him. Then Chris, after
carefully tucking her in, in most approved fashion, would be off, with
a touch of his hat, and with profound gratitude in his heart for the
strength of limb and muscle that made him regard Mr. Belden's inactive
life in the light of a sorry burden. That the latter often so regarded
himself was evident in the ever-deepening lines of weariness that seamed
his pale and handsome face.
“Well, what have you and your good Chris been up to to-day?” would be
invariably Mr. Belden's first question; and after Marie-Celeste had told
the little or much there was to tell, they would as invariably drift
round to talking about books, for they both loved them. One day it was
“Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “Hans Brinker,” and then Marie-Celeste “had
the floor”; and the next it was “The Story of a Short Life,” when honors
were even, as they used to say in whist, because both had so lately
read it. And then for three days together, during the hour for the daily
chat, Marie-Celeste sat an entranced listener, while the wonderful story
was told of beautiful little Isabel of Valois, the child-queen whom
Richard of Bordeaux brought to England at the age of nine, and whose
childish reign was so soon concluded. It had chanced that the book that
had been brushed so summarily from Mr. Belden's hand when Marie-Celeste
made his acquaintance had proved to be Dixon's “Royal Windsor;” and as
soon as the terms of their friendship were unquestionably established,
she made so bold as to ask many questions regarding its contents; for
what could have more interest for a Windsor-bound little maiden than
the story of the Royal Castle? And the best part of it was that the book
happened to be the second volume, and therefore contained the history
of Madame la Petite Reine, as the little French Isabel was called. Never
proved fairy tale more charming than this true story as it fell from
Mr. Belden's lips. Over and over he told it, adding each time some
delightful new touch of detail, till at last Marie-Celeste knew it quite
by heart, and rested therein contented.
But not all of their little daughter's time, that Mr. and Mrs. Harris
were willing to spare to others, was spent with these grown-up friends
of hers. On the second day out Chris had made a most interesting
and pathetic discovery. A little sick bugler was stowed away in an
undesirable second-cabin state-room that had remained unengaged; and
Chris, noticing that a bowl of broth or some sort of nourishing food was
carried thither three times a day, but that apart from this no one ever
entered or left the state-room, questioned the steward, and as soon as
he learned the facts, made his own way in, to the great delight of the
lonely little fellow. Then the next morning he interested Mrs. Harris
(who was proving a far better sailor than any one had dared to hope)
in his new little _protégé_, and after that, as a matter of course,
Marie-Celeste and the little bugler became the best of friends.
“Donald,” she said on her second visit, for the one preceding had
naturally been limited to the ordinary themes of first acquaintance, “I
wish you would tell me a little more about yourself. Mamma says you
have been ill a long time in New York with a fever, but that now you are
quite over it and are on your way home; and that's all we know.”
“That's all there is,” running one little white hand through his hair as
he spoke, in an apparent effort to make himself more presentable.
“Oh, you're all right,” said Marie-Celeste, smiling; “curly hair like
yours looks better when it's mussed.”
“Would you like me to come and straighten you up a bit?” called Chris,
who had really established himself as Donald's nurse, and sat whittling
in his own state-room just across the passage.
“No, Chris, he doesn't need you at all,” Marie-Celeste volunteered;
“he looks very fine as he is” (which gracious compliment brought a very
becoming color to the little blanched face). “Besides, Chris, he is
going to tell me something about himself--aren't you, Donald? Just what
you choose, though, you know, because mamma said I must not seem to be
inquisitive, and I'm not, Donald, really--just interested, that's all.”
“What kind of things do you want to know?” as though quite willing to be
communicative, but at a loss where to begin.
“Why, how you happened to be a bugler, and how you happened to be ill in
New York, and where your home is?”
“No home,” said Donald, laconically, and with an unconscious little sigh
that went straight to Marie-Celeste's heart; “I was in the Foundling
Hospital all my life till I came on the Majestic.
“Ill all your life!” exclaimed Marie-Celeste.
“Oh lands, no! I never was ill a day that I know of till that fever got
hold of me.”
“Then why did you stay in an hospital?”
“It was more what we call an asylum in America,” explained Chris, who,
as a permitted eavesdropper, felt at liberty to join in the conversation
on occasion.
“It's a place,” explained Donald, “where children are cared for who
haven't any particular fathers or mothers.”
“Oh!” said Marie-Celeste, but in a bewildered way, as though she could
not quite take in the idea.
“It isn't very pleasant not knowing who you belong to, but it isn't
such a bad place to stay. They keep things scrubbed up to the nines, and
everything's as neat and well ordered as a ship. I think being trained
that way was one thing that made me want to go to sea.”
It was easy to see, from the grave look on Marie-Celeste's face, that
she was still pondering the sad predicament of “no particular father or
mother,” but she asked, “Where was the hospital, Donald?”
“In London; and like as not if you go there you'll go out to see it.
They always have lots of visitors on Sundays. They dress the girls up
awful pretty in black dresses with short sleeves, and mitts that come
way up over the elbow, like ladies' gloves at a party, and caps and
kerchiefs folded crosswise round their shoulders, like this.”
“You've seen a picture of them singing out of a book, haven't you?”
called Chris, by way of illustration.
“Why, so I have,” said Marie-Celeste; “we gave an artist-proof of it to
our minister one Christmas.”
“I've seen it too,” continued Donald, wondering whether an artist-proof
and a waterproof had anything in common; “but the girls aren't often
so handsome as that; but I'll tell you when they do look pretty as a
picture: that's on a clear Sunday morning, just about midway in the
service, when the sun comes streaming through one of the choir windows
in a great white shaft of light, I think they call it. It just goes
slanting across the benches, and then the girls it happens to strike, no
matter how homely they are, really look just beautiful, with their white
caps and kerchiefs all lighted up in the sunshine. I used to think they
put the girls on that side to show them off, for the boys just look
pretty much as boys always do.”
“But you have a home now, haven't you, Donald, that you're going to when
we reach England?”
“No; I don't know where I'm going; I haven't decided,” he added, with
studied indifference; for Donald preferred not to burden these new
friends of his with his trials and perplexities. Likely as not he would
be able to find some decent enough place in Liverpool, and he thought,
if he managed very carefully, his savings might be made to hold out till
he could put to sea again on his dear old Majestic.
“And now I'd like to know all about you,” said Donald, by way of
changing the subject; “there must be a deal more to tell when you've had
your father and mother to help you remember things, than when you've had
to do all the remembering yourself. Getting your start in a foundling
hospital is sort of like being led into the world blindfold.”
“Pretty old talk for a youngster,” thought Chris; “but I suppose it
comes along of his being alone half the time, with so much chance to
think.”
“Would you like me to commence at the very beginning,” asked
Marie-Celeste, “when I was just a mere scrap of a thing?” Donald nodded
assent.
“Well, then, I was rather good-looking, if you don't mind, and a real
sunshiny little body, papa says.” Donald looked as though he could
readily believe it, and Chris, in the retirement of his stateroom, shook
his head, as though he felt sure of it.
“But of course I soon got over that, and almost as soon as I was in
short dresses I began to show I had quite a little will of my own, and
then for two or three years they had a pretty hard time with me. I would
have regular tantrums, and just kick and scream if I couldn't do
just what I wanted to. I had two dear little brothers then, and I
remember---yes, I remember this myself--how they used to amuse me and
try to make me good. And sometimes they seemed very proud of me, and
sometimes, Donald, I was proud of myself, too. Mamma used to dress me in
white dresses with short sleeves that came just to my elbow, tied round
with pink or blue ribbons, and a sash to match, tied on one side in
front, and I knew it was pretty and stylish, and used to walk around
with my head in the air, and people would laugh and say I was awfully
cunning. Somehow or other I was rather spoiled, you see; but when I
was only five years old Louis and Jack died, both in one week, of
diphtheria, and mamma says from that week I have never given her any
real trouble. It seemed as though I remembered how Louis and Jack wanted
me to be good, and so I did try very hard. And now I almost always think
of them when I am getting into a temper, and if I get the best of it, I
feel that they know and are glad.”
“It must have been hard for your mother to do without them,” said Donald
a little awkwardly, but with his face full of sympathy.
“Very hard, Donald; and oh, how she used to cry; but mamma is very good
and sweet, and is so thankful that she has papa and me left. You know,
Jack and Louis used to say, 'Jesus, gentle Shepherd.' at bedtime every
night, just as I do, and mamma says she thinks of them now, just as
little lambs safe-folded by the dear Shepherd they used to pray to every
night. I think it's that that makes her brave and bright.”
“That's a beautiful way to think,” said Donald warmly, and Chris thought
so too, and stopped whittling.
“Have you no brothers or sisters now?” questioned Donald.
“No, none; so, you see, it would be a shame if I didn't try to be all
the comfort I could; and now you know all there is about me.”
“Why, no, I don't,” said Donald, surprised, folding his hands behind his
head by way of a change of position; “I don't know where you live, or
where you are going, or how you came to know Mr. Hartley, or what
you are going to do this summer;” whereupon Marie-Celeste straightway
proceeded to give all the desired information, and more besides.
Watchful Chris thought he began to detect signs of weariness in Donald's
occasional answers, and as soon as he felt sure of it he bundled
Marie-Celeste off in a hurry, and pinning a shawl over the port-hole,
left the little convalescent for a nap undisturbed in his darkened
state-room.
And now you have at least an idea of how Marie-Celeste passed her time
on the steamer, and you can understand how there might have been some
people rather less glad than sorry when they felt the machinery stop at
two o'clock one morning, and knew that the Queenstown passengers were
being transferred to the tender, and that before sunset all the people
aboard the great steamer would be separated to the four winds. Chris was
sorry, because he had looked forward with so much pleasure to the
voyage across with Marie-Celeste, and it had all so far exceeded his
expectations.
Donald was sorry, because he never had met “such lovely people” as
the Harrises and Mr. Hartley, and never expected to again, and I half
believe Mr. Belden was sorriest of all. He was going right up to his
club in London, to lead the same old loveless, self-centred life, and
somehow the glimpse of something very different he had had through
Marie-Celeste made it appear more vapid and colorless than ever. But the
steamer did not mind how any of her passengers were feeling--she must
make the best possible record, no matter who was glad or sorry; and on
she steamed, past lonely and beautiful Holyhead, and then through the
wide Irish Sea (that seems indeed a veritable ocean in its wideness),
until land once more was sighted and the harbor reached, and the
anchor dropped off the wonderful docks at Liverpool. And then, in a few
moments, the tender that was to land them was bearing down upon them,
and a handsome, eager-faced little fellow, in an Eton jacket, was
standing as far forward as possible in her bow, and an older fellow,
who resembled the younger one closely, was standing, I am happy to say,
close beside him.