[Illustration: 9066]
Never in all this world was there a happier little host than Harold
Harris when he found how kindly his guests from across the water were
taking to the life at Windsor; but who would not have taken kindly to
it, I should like to know? The Queen herself, in her great castle on the
hill, could not have planned more for the comfort of her guests than did
Harold in his little castle beneath it; and, indeed, this name of Little
Castle had somehow attached itself to the pretty stone house, with its
round tower and moat-shaped terrace.
It had been an idle bachelor's fancy to build after this unique fashion
some ten years before; but when Harold's mother had come seeking a home
in Windsor, he was already tired of it, and she found the house was “To
be let,” provided desirable tenants could be found; and “desirable” the
little widow proved in the eyes of the discriminating agent. “None more
so,” he thought complacently when he called for the first quarter's
rent, and saw what a gem of a place she had made it. All the contents of
the house in London, which after her husband's death had seemed too sad
a place to live in, had been brought into the ivy-covered little castle,
and under her transforming touch it had soon become as cheery and cosey
as possible. But it was not enough for Harold that he was able to invite
his friends into such an attractive home. A room in the top story, with
a fine north light, was fitted up as a studio for Uncle Fritz, who,
though a business man by circumstance, was an artist through and
through. For Aunt Lou an up-stairs sitting-room was converted into a
little study; for although Aunt Lou herself was rather loath to confess
it, it was nevertheless somewhat generally known that she was very fond
of writing stories for children. For Marie-Celeste there seemed nothing
in particular that could be done, save to make her own little room as
inviting as could be. To accomplish this, Harold conferred with a friend
of Ted's, Canon Allyn's daughter. Miss Allyn, who had been a great
favorite of Harold's mother, was only too glad to have him turn to her,
and entered into all the preparations with an enthusiasm that was very
delightful. She suggested, among other things, a valance and curtains
for the little brass bedstead, already purchased, and then went herself
and selected a soft, white material and superintended their making. At
her suggestion, too, the couch and chairs were upholstered with a pretty
flower-patterned cretonne, and some lovely white-framed etchings were
hung upon the tinted walls. Then, by grace of his own idea of fitness,
Harold had added to the other furnishings a Dresden china toilet-set,
and in this he was perhaps far wiser than he knew, for is there anything
so well calculated to captivate at sight the heart of a dainty little
maiden as the mysterious round-topped boxes that compose the dainty
outfit of the ideal dressing-table? Then, to crown it all, a pair of
ponies and a basket-phaeton had been purchased for the exclusive use of
the guests that were to be. Of course, all this meant money; but with
the exception of the previous summer, when Theodore's guests had cost
him such a pretty penny, Harold had conscientiously lived a good way
inside his income, so that there was a reserve fund to draw on, on
demand. As I said, then, who would not have taken kindly to the life
at Windsor under such conditions, and have lost no time in stowing
themselves happily away in the special niche prepared for them? So Mr.
Harris painted as for dear life in all weathers, indoors or out, as the
fancy struck him, and Mrs. Harris turned her leisure to account for a
bit of writing now and then, and in between times they drove hither and
thither in the basket-phaeton, and, one by one, took in all the sights
of old and delightful Windsor. And Marie-Celeste did likewise, as far
as the driving and sight-seeing were concerned; but having no greater
responsibility than the arrangement of the Dresden boxes on the little
dressing-table, wandered about at her own sweet will, in the hours while
Harold was at school and when every one else was busy. And the place to
which she wandered most often was to St. George's Chapel, which at the
time of her talk with Donald she had not yet had the good fortune to
visit. But with Marie-Celeste, as with some of the rest of us, to
know St. George's was to love it, and she had soon gained a standing
permission to go there whenever she liked; and that was very often--so
often, in fact, that any one who saw her one lovely May morning tripping
down the walk from the Little Castle, as though bent upon some special
errand, could easily have guessed her destination. It was a matter of
five minutes to reach the corner of High Street, and of three minutes
more to climb Castle Hill; then a smile to the guard who happened to be
on duty at the gate, and she was within the castle walls. And once there
she stopped to take it all in, for it had never seemed so beautiful
before; and then in a moment she knew what new touch had been added to
the scene. The sun had shone as brilliantly, and the gray round tower,
with its grass-grown terraces, had stood out as clearly against the blue
of the English sky, but never before--for Marie-Celeste, that is--had
those terraces been abloom with great masses of lilacs. Two days
had come and gone since her last visit, and the showers and sunshine
intervening had flashed the myriad tiny buds of every cluster into full
and transcendent bloom. No wonder the child held her breath, spellbound
from sheer delight, and no wonder, too, that the spell lost its power
to hold her the moment she spied a darling, new little friend of hers
standing in the chapel doorway. “And--and now good-morning,” rang out a
cheery little voice as she had hastened up the path.
“Good-morning, Albert,” answered Marie-Celeste, smiling at the expected,
“and now,” with which, by way of getting the best of a tendency to
stutter, Albert was accustomed to preface many of his remarks; “1
thought I should find you here,” she added; “and _have_ you seen the
lilacs, Albert?”
“Yes; and our bushes are out too,” with an emphatic little nod of the
head, as much as to say, that the Queen's lilacs were not specially
privileged in that direction.
“Is your sister going to play this morning?” asked Marie-Celeste, with
an eagerness on her face that gave place to intense satisfaction as
Albert answered, “Yes; she's comin' in a little while;” since to have
Miss Allyn at the organ during these visits of hers to the chapel
was just the most delightful thing that could possibly happen for
Marie-Celeste. “And now let's have a little chat,” said Albert, seating
himself on the step, and making room for Marie-Celeste beside him.
“And what shall we talk about?”
“The weather;” for with Albert this topic was always of paramount
importance. “And first, I'll see what kind of a day we are going to
have;” and suiting the action to the word, he stepped off a little
distance to take an observation. He was always the embodiment of dainty
freshness, this little four-year-old Albert, and thanks to his mother's
preference, boyish percale dresses still kept the Lilliputian trousers
of the period at bay. He was a cunning little object as he strode a few
feet down the path, his hat on the back of his golden curls, a soft, red
silk sash knotted soldier-like at his side, and his hands folded behind
him, in evident and precise imitation of some older observer of the
elements. His observations, however, were so exceedingly cursory and so
impartially comprehensive, including the path at his feet every whit
as carefully as the sky above him, that Marie-Celeste had difficulty in
preserving proper decorum.
[Illustration: 0070]
“We are going to have a fine day,” Albert asserted, resuming his seat
on the steps, and with the authority of one who knows; and the matter of
the weather being thus satisfactorily disposed of, Marie-Celeste made
so bold as to introduce another subject; and as it chanced to meet
with Albert's approval, they chatted merrily together for ever so long.
Meantime, a party of tourists, with Marshall's familiar pink guide-hook
open in the hands of one of them, had been surveying the chapel at
a distance, and now, after a word or two with the children on the
doorstep, made their way within.
“Is Mr. Brooke in the chapel, Albeit?” asked Marie-Celeste.
“Yes,” sighed Albert; for he knew that his answer meant an end to their
chat; for whenever during these visits of hers a party of tourists
were so fortunate as to secure the services of the verier, Mr. Brooke,
Marie-Celeste invariably followed in their train, listening to every
word as it fell from the good old man's lips. She already knew many of
the monument inscriptions by heart, but that made no difference; for
her the old chapel possessed a never-ending fascination, and she rarely
crossed the threshold of the choir--which was a beautiful chapel
in itself--without an actual thrill of pleasure. So, as Albert had
expected, this morning proved no exception, and he was unceremoniously
left to communion with his own thoughts upon the doorstep; but it did
not prove a long separation. In their tour of the chapel the travellers
from across the water had but reached the wonderful cenotaph of the
Princess Charlotte, when a sweet single chord from the great organ broke
upon the air, as though the player simply wanted to make sure that the
instrument would respond when the time came. But in that single chord
lay a summons for Marie-Celeste and for Albert; at least, they chose so
to regard it, and meeting at the foot of the organ-loft stairway, they
climbed it hand-in-hand.
“So here you are!” said a very sweet-looking young lady, turning to
greet the children from her seat on the organ-bench. “Seems to me I
would have waited for more of an invitation than that, just that one
chord.”
“You needn't mind 'bout inwiting us ever, Dorothy,” said Albert, climbing
on to a cushioned bench at his sister's side, “'cause we'd tome anyhow,
wouldn't we, Marie-Celeste?”
“Yes, Albert, I think we would; but you really don't mind having us, do
you, Miss Allyn?”
“No, I _really_ don't,” in imitation of Marie-Celeste's frequent use
of the word. “In fact, I rather like to have two such every-day little
specimens near me here in this chapel, where so many great people lie
buried; and now I shall not say another word, because I want to have a
good practice.”
“But you'll--” and then Marie-Celeste thought perhaps she had better not
ask it.
“Stop in time for your favorites,” laughed Miss Allyn, finishing the
sentence. “Yes, of course I will. Perhaps you'd like them now, you and
Albert?”
“No, no, Dorothy,” said Albert firmly; “we want to think they are
tomin', and not dat dey're over.” And as Marie-Celeste was evidently of
the same mind, that settled the matter. Then for the first time the tone
of the organ rang out full and strong; and the visitors in the chapel
below looked up with rapt faces to the gallery, as though for them, as
for Marie-Celeste, the sweet music seemed to lend the last perfecting
touch to the holy enchantment of the place. For over an hour, with
scarce an interruption, Miss Allyn played on and on, and Marie-Celeste
never stirred from the choirmaster's chair, in which she sat absorbed
and entranced. Albert, it must be confessed, had made more than one
mysterious _sortie_ down the gallery stairs, as though bent on an
important errand which had just occurred to him; but in each case
he brought up in rather aimless fashion in some remote corner of the
chapel; so it was easy to comprehend that the only real purpose in view
was to give his restless little four-year-old self the benefit of a
change. He was absent on the third of these little excursions of his,
and was surreptitiously amusing his audacious little self by seeing how
it seemed to sit in the Oueen's own stall, when hark!--yes, that was
going to be “The Roseate Hues,” and with a bound that came near bringing
the royal draperies with him he was out of the stall in a trice and
fairly scrambling up the organ stairs.
“Bedin aden; it isn't fair; bedin aden, Dorothy, _please_,” he urged
with all the breath hurrying and excitement had left him; and Dorothy,
at sight of his anxious, entreating face, resolved to “begin again,”
first bringing the interrupted measure to a close with a brief
concluding improvisation of her own. Albert understood, and brooked the
momentary delay as best he could, but he confided to Marie-Celeste, in
highly audible whisper, that he didn't see why Dorothy couldn't stop
short off in the middle of a piece if she chose to: he could, anyway--he
knew he could.
“Perhaps,” said Marie-Celeste, far wiser than she knew, “you couldn't
if you were really a great musician.” And then instantly both children
stood still and motionless, for there was the familiar melody again.
[Illustration: 0073]
“De roseate hoos of early dawn,” hummed Albert in a cunning, to-himself
sort of way,
De biteness of de day,
De kimson of de sunset sky,
How fast dey fade away,”
and then the same verse through again and still again, as Dorothy
was good enough to repeat the brief, sweet strain for his special
delectation. It is doubtful if Albert appreciated the pathos of the
lines. It was the rose hue of the sunrise and the crimson of the sunset,
wedded to the lovely melody of the refrain, that brought such rapture of
delight to his color-loving soul.
And now it was Marie-Celeste's turn, and the martial strain of “The Son
of God goes forth to war” woke the old chapel echoes. Three times, as
for Albert, the air was played effectively through, and then Miss Allyn
slipped down from the organ-bench and into the nearest chair.
“I wish I had strength just once,” she said, “to play as long as I
should like to.”
“Then you'd never stop, Dorothy, not even at the ends,” said
Albert, looking comically doleful at the mere prospect of such an
undesirable state of affairs.
“I remember Mr. Belden told me on the steamer,” said Marie-Celeste, with
the air of one who settles down for a good talk with a familiar friend,
“of some musician who heard some one strike two or three chords and then
suddenly stop, and after that he; could not get a wink of sleep till
he jumped out of bed and rushed to his piano and struck the chord that
belonged at the end of the others.”
“Yes; that was Handel, I think,” said Miss Allyn.
“Handel!” repeated Marie-Celeste; “I want to remember that name and
everything else besides, if I can, that Mr. Belden told me.”
“Who was this Mr. Belden, Marie-Celeste?”
“Oh, he was the queerest English gentleman--an English gentleman that I
met on the steamer. I don't think many people liked him--he said himself
they didn't, anyway; but I liked him, and we grew to be great friends,
and we had a long chat together almost every day.”
“What about?” asked Albert eagerly, since chats were just in his line.
“Oh, often about books, and a great deal about the castle here, for
he seemed to know all about it. Besides, he was reading a book called
'Royal Windsor,' and that was how I came to know him, because I knocked
it out of his hands accidentally, and then I had to ask him to excuse
me, and that's the way we commenced to be friends. After that he told
me a great deal about what he had been reading. And did you ever hear,
Albert, about a little French girl who was made Queen of England, and
came to live in the castle when she was only eight years old, and who
used to come to this very chapel?”
“No, never,” with eyes as big as saucers.
“Well, some day, Albert, I'll tell you all about her, and some other
things that happened right here in St. George's. You know, about her,
don't you, Miss Allyn?”
“Yes, a little--Madame La Petite Reine, I believe they called her; but
tell me more, Marie-Celeste, about your steamer friend. He must, as you
say, have been a queer sort of a person to tell you people didn't like
him.”
“I guess it was true, though. He seemed kind of a selfish man, and
looked so cross until you came to know him, that I was really very much
frightened the day I knocked the book out of his hand. He isn't ever
very well, and he has to keep travelling about for his health. I think
that's one reason he looks cross; but he's very handsome, and papa says
very aristocratic.”
“I would radcr hear about de little Queen,” remarked Albert demurely.
“Hush, dear!” said Dorothy; “I want to hear more about this Mr. ------
did you say his name was Belden, Marie-Celeste? Are you sure it was
Belden?”
“Yes, sure; I have it at home in the printed list of passengers. And
another queer thing about him”--for there was real pleasure in enlarging
on a subject in which her listener took such undisguised interest--“was
that he told me one day that he had too much money. That was funny,
wasn't it? And he said he thought life was very stupid. He just seemed
all out of sorts with everything, and I got him to read the 'Story of a
Short Life;' I thought it would do him good, and I'm sure it did.”
“I don't know about that story, either,” said Albert aggressively, and
as though such constant allusion to very interesting things was really
more than could be patiently endured; but he found to his sorrow that
his gentle protest seemed to make no impression whatsoever.
“I fancy it was Mr. Belden, too,” continued Marie-Celeste, as though
wholly unconscious of any interruption, “who asked them to sing 'The Son
of God goes forth to war' at the service in the saloon Sunday morning. I
think anybody who reads the 'Story of a Short Life' must love that hymn,
don't you? That's the reason I'm fond of it. Whenever I hear it I seem
to see the soldiers in the church at Asholt and the V.C. out on the
door-step, singing the beautiful words loud and clear, so that dear
little Leonard would hear; and then the hand pulling down the curtain
at the barrack master's window, so that the V.C. knew at once that the
little fellow had gone to heaven at last.”
“Yes, it's a beautiful story,” said Miss Allyn thoughtfully. But
meantime, matters had reached a climax in little Albert's heaving
breast. If nothing was to be explained, there was no use staying any
longer, and he summarily took his departure; and but for his childish
reverence for the sacred place would doubtless have stamped his
indignant way down the steps of the spiral stairway. Miss Allyn smiled
significantly and rose to follow.
“From all you have told me, Marie-Celeste, your friend might well be
Theodore's uncle,” said Miss Allyn, as they made their way down the
stairs; “he and Harold have an uncle--their mother's brother--a Mr.
Harold Selden, who was very much the sort of man you describe.”
“Oh, no; I'm sure that couldn't be, Miss Allyn! Because I talked about
Harold often, so that he would have known and told me, and he would have
told me, too, if his name had not been Bel-den, you know.”
Miss Allyn was not so sure of that; but Albert was mounting the wall of
the terrace, to which he had led the way, in rather dangerous fashion,
and Miss Allyn hurrying to lift the little fellow to a safer level, the
conversation ended abruptly.
“Isn't it beautiful!” she said, as Marie-Celeste joined her, at the same
time lending a hand toward a less ambitious bit of climbing with which
Albert was fain to content himself.
Marie-Celeste looked away over the tops of the fine old trees that just
reach to the terraces from the steep decline of the slopes below, way
to the lovely meadows, and then turned to look up at the castle, leaning
comfortably against the wall at her back.
“Yes,” she said seriously; “I can't find any words for it all”--her face
fairly aglow with enthusiasm as she spoke--“everything is so perfectly
lovely: the views, and the towers, and the castle itself, and the
chapels, and the wonderful Long Walk, so that it seems as though I was
just dreaming it all, even to the little room Harold has fitted up so
beautifully for me.”
“I was sure it would look very prettily when it was finished,” said Miss
Allyn complacently. “Why, did you see it?”
“Why, of course I did! Hasn't Harold told you that I selected the
curtains, and the valance, and the hangings, and went with him to buy
the set for the toilette-table?”
“Oh, yes, of course he did. I don't know what I was thinking of. You
used to know Aunt Grace very well, didn't you?”
“Yes; and loved her with all my heart; and I used to spend a great deal
of time at the dear Little Castle.”
“Do you know much about Ted, Miss Allyn?”
“No, not much, dear--not nowadays; but why do you ask?”
“Oh, because--well, I suppose I ought not to say it, but we're awfully
disappointed in Ted. He wasn't ever half so nice as Harold, was he?”
“Oh, yes, he was--just as nice every bit; though we English people
think that word nice of yours is so very queer. You have heard, haven't
you”--for Miss Aliyn was quite willing to change the subject--“of the
Englishman who said to a young girl whom he met on the steamer, 'You
Americans use _nice_ so much, I think it's a nasty word;' and of how she
turned and archly said, 'And do you think _nasty_ is a nice word?'”
“Dood for her,” said Albert, thankful that the conversation had once
more grown intelligible.
“But nobody thinks Ted is so nice now, do they?” for Marie-Celeste
preferred to keep to the main point.
“No, I'm afraid not; but they would if he would let them, I'm sure, for
he had the makings of a splendid fellow in him.”
“He used to be Dorothy's best friend, didn't he, Dorothy?”
“Yes, he did, Albert, and I miss him very much. He and Harry are great
friends still. Harry's my big brother, Marie-Celeste.”
“Why doesn't he tom to see us now, Dorothy?” Albert questioned.
“He's tired of us, perhaps;” and Marie-Celeste, looking up at Miss
Allyn's sweet face, wondered how that could be, and then asked very
seriously, “Do you know what has changed him, Miss Aliyn?”
“Oh, yes, it is easy enough to tell: Oxford and popularity and more
money than is good for him, like your friend, Mr. Belden. It takes
pretty strong stuff to withstand that combination.”
“Well, I know one thing,” said Marie-Celeste, “and that is that he isn't
at all nice to Harold, and that he comes home very seldom, and is very
high and mighty when he does come.”
“High and mighty?” queried Albert, with a whimsical little smile. “That
must be a funny way to be;” and then Miss Allyn, more impressed than
ever with the doubtful propriety of discussing Mr. Theodore Harris's
shortcomings under existing conditions, looked at her watch, and
discovering it was time to go home, asked Marie-Celeste to come with
them to luncheon.
“No, not to-day, thank you. Mamma will be sending to look me up if I
don't hurry home myself. So, good-bye; good-bye, Albert (with a kiss,
which the fast-maturing, little fellow was half inclined to resent), and
thank you ever so much for the music. Shall you play on Thursday, Miss
Allyn?”
“Yes; at this same time, probably.”
“Then I shall surely come.”
“So s'all I,” chimed in a little voice with even firmer determination.