[Illustration: 9109]
I am convinced this is not the best sort of life for Donald. It would
be vastly better for him to have something to do.”
“But surely he is not yet in a condition to go to sea again, and it is
next to impossible to find any temporary position for him in Windsor.”
Mr. and Mrs. Harris were out for a drive behind Harold's chestnut
ponies, and, as usual, when something important had need to be talked
over, the ponies did pretty much as they liked, and that meant, I am
ashamed to say (for they were quite too young to so much as think of
being lazy), keeping up the merest pretence of a trot for a while, and
then subsiding into a walk altogether.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris, apparently none the wiser, talked on and on, and
the ponies put their heads together, as though actually conferring as to
the advisability of stopping to graze a little while by the way.
“You see, this sort of life is too luxurious for the fellow,” argued Mr.
Harris. “It was well enough while he needed care and nursing, but the
boy has always had to rough it, and he'll have to rough it again; and I
think we're unfitting him for it.”
“But what can we do? It is better for him to be idle here with us, it
seems to me, than in some ordinary lodging-house, where things, to be
sure, are not by any means luxurious, but where a boy who is not at work
meets with so many temptations.”
“I wonder if it would not be a good idea to write Chris Hartley? He told
me his grandfather has a snug little place and several head of stock,
and, like as not, Donald would make himself of use, or, at any rate,
Chris could keep him occupied in some way, and we could pay his board
for him there. He won't be strong enough to put to sea before September,
that's certain.”
“That's a splendid idea, Fritz; you always seem to be able to construct
some sort of a highroad out of every difficulty;” and Mr. Harris said,
“Thank you, madam,” with an affectation of profound gratitude; but for
all that he was none the less truly grateful. We are a little too apt,
most of us, to assume too much with our nearest and dearest--to take for
granted that they know all the thoughts of our heart, and so seldom put
our praise of them into words. But what a mistake! Is there anything
so precious in all this world as the openly expressed admiration of
the people we really love? No matter how one pretends to receive it, it
makes one feel very happy at heart all the same, and humble and grateful
as well. You'd forgive this bit of what the critics call moralizing--it
is all the outcome of that remark of Mrs. Harris's; nothing was further
from my thoughts until she put it into my head by giving Mr. Harris that
unexpected little compliment. It was the truth, however. He did have a
genius for overcoming difficulties, instead of being overcome by them;
and the particular difficulty of what had best be none with Donald being
temporarily settled, they proceeded to give themselves wholly to the
pleasure of the drive. They readjusted things in the comfortable little
phaeton and tucked the lap-robe about them in trimmer fashion, and then
the ponies, feeling a tightening grasp on the lines, and intuitively
conscious of a whip poised at an easily descending angle, wisely saw fit
to make up for lost time. Along the perfect English road they scampered,
and out to Virginia Water, at the merriest pace, and then home again at
a better pace still, so alluring to their pony imaginations were the
box stalls and oats that lay in that direction. They only wished so much
time did not have to be wasted after they reached there. How thoughtless
it was to walk a pony, who had just come in from a long drive, up and
down a lane for half an hour, just for the sake of giving a groom a
little exercise! They did protest with their heels now and then, but
that only meant a closer, more uncomfortable grip on the halter, and
made matters rather worse than better. And so what wonder, with all
this fuss and senseless bother, that Mr. Harris had written and mailed
a letter to Mr. Christopher Hartley before the ponies had gotten so much
as their noses within their own box stalls! As for the letter, you would
have thought it harmless enough could you have looked over Mr. Harris's
shoulder as he wrote it. It simply related the facts about Donald, and
asked if old Mr. and Mrs. Hartley would not be good enough to take him
to board for the rest of the summer, and if Chris would not contrive to
keep him occupied about the farm in some way that should not overtax his
newly gained strength. That was all there was in it, and yet can you not
surmise how even that letter was calculated to work great consternation
in the mind of some one in the little thatched cottage--some one who
never saw the letter itself, and who did not so much as know of its
existence until it had been read and re-read and thought over and
answered, but who when one day he was made acquainted with its contents
felt as weak as a kitten for hours afterward? He happened to be lying on
the lounge in the living-room at the time, the same lounge to which
he had been carried more dead than alive apparently, just four weeks
before. He looked very pale and white still, but the doctor said he was
getting on as fast as could be expected, only Ted--for of course it is
Ted we are talking about--wished he might have been expected to get on
just five times faster. He had had a great deal of time to think during
the first part of his illness--in fact, he had had nothing else to do,
for the doctor would not let him use his eyes--and he had made up his
mind that when he was himself once more he was going to begin life all
over again, and naturally he was anxious to get to work. There was
that in his face, however, that showed plainly enough that he had
begun already, though he did not in the least suspect it; an earnest,
thoughtful look that even bluff old Mr. Hartley was quick to detect.
“Seems like, to look at our new lodger, that he's mendin' in more ways
than one,” he had said to his wife as they walked to the parish church
on a sunshiny Sunday morning, the second after Ted's accident. “There's
a kind of a light in his eye, as though he was meditatin' turnin' over a
new leaf when he gets a chance.”
“He's turned it already, I'm thinking, Thomas,” answered Mrs. Hartley,
with a woman's clearer discernment.
And it was on that same Sunday morning, just two weeks before, that Ted
had made a discovery. Chris had staid home from church to take care of
him, Harry Allyn, who had constituted himself Ted's nurse, having gone
for a day or two up to Oxford, where some matters needed his attention.
Ted was still in bed at the time, but tired enough of it, and glad to
draw Chris into conversation.
“It is queer to think of you as in the employ of 'Uncle Sam,'” said Ted,
who by this time had come to be on most friendly terms with Chris.
“I look as though I belonged right here, don't I?” said Chris, glancing
down at his English suit of homespun. “But you ought to see me in my
gray uniform and brass buttons. Really, Mr. Morris, fond as I am of the
old people here, I often wish I were back at work again. It seems like
my own country over there now, and I've grown to love it.”
[Illustration: 012]
“When are you going back, Chris?”
“I don't know exactly--somewhere about the first of October. Same
steamer, if I can manage it, with Marie-Celeste.”
“Marie-Celeste!” exclaimed Ted; and then, bethinking himself, he asked
quite casually, “Who is Marie-Celeste, I should like to know?”
“Well, she's just a dear child, Mr. Morris--a little American of twelve
or thereabouts--but there isn't a little girl in all England can hold a
candle to her.”
“Can it be possible there are two little American Marie-Celestes in
England this summer?” thought Ted; and then, trying with all his might
not to betray his excitement, he asked further, “How did you come to
know her, Chris?”
“She's on my route, Mr. Morris. Along of my being fond of children, I
know all of the boys and girls pretty well at the houses where I call;
but Marie-Celeste is different from the rest. She just takes your heart
by storm, with her confiding, little trusting ways and her interest
in you. Here's a picture of her, that her mother let her give me last
Christmas,” and Chris began a search through many papers in his wallet
for the cherished photograph. Meantime, Ted realized how weak he was,
that such a matter as this should put him into a tremble; and later,
when Chris gave him the photograph, he could only manage by the greatest
effort to keep his hand from shaking as he held it, but the picture
settled matters. From beneath the curve of a wide-brimmed hat looked
forth the familiar face of his own little cousin, Marie-Celeste, and the
color rushed up into his forehead.
“I guess I'm tiring you with talking so much,” said Chris; “I'll tell
you all about her some other time;” and Ted, replying, “Well, somehow
or other, I do seem to get exhausted precious easily,” turned over and
closed his eyes.
“A nap'll do wonders for you, Mr. Morris;” and lowering the shades at
the two ivy-grown windows, and adjusting the screen that stood near
the bed, Chris left the room. But a nap, as often happens, would not do
anything at all for poor Ted just then. It did not have the ghost of a
chance, in fact. How could it with so many queer thoughts and sensations
chasing each other pell-mell through his mind. Wouldn't Chris be
surprised, he thought, if he knew that Marie-Celeste was his own cousin,
and living that moment in Ted's own home was one of the precious company
from whom he was anxious to keep all knowledge of this worst and last
scrape. But he felt like a fraud, lying there in the Hartleys' dear
little cottage, and letting them think him another man altogether from
the fellow he really was. Indeed, he experienced the same sensation
every time any one called him by the name of Morris, which had been the
first name to occur to Harry Allyn, in his desire to shield his friend
on the night of the accident. “And yet,” argued Ted, “I'm doing it to
save the folks at home the disgrace of it, and Harry and Dr. Arnold
seem to think it all right; and yet, I declare if I know myself what to
think. And what a remarkable thing it is that I should have fallen right
into the hands of this old friend of Marie-Celeste's! Like as not my
secret will out some day in spite of me. It would have been out at once
if Chris had not been so considerate as to keep himself out of the way,
so that we did not meet that morning on the steamer. I wonder if I ought
not to tell just Chris, anyway; but somehow or other I do not seem to
have strength enough even to make up my mind, and I'll give up trying
for the present;” and so, ceasing to make any effort whatever, the
little nap that would not come for the asking stole quietly in and
laid its blessed touch of oblivion upon poor, troubled Ted. Now, this
discovery of Ted's, that Chris was a friend of Marie-Celeste, and the
perplexing state of mind that followed, had transpired, you understand,
two weeks previous to this particular chapter, and Ted, you remember,
is lying on the chintz-covered lounge in the living-room, having gained
strength enough in the mean time to walk from his bed to the lounge
unaided. Mr. Hartley is reading his morning paper, sitting in the shade
just outside the cottage door, with his chair tipped back against the
shingles. Now and then, as he comes across anything he thinks will
interest Ted, he lets the chair drop on to all-fours, shifts his
position so as to bring himself into line with the door, and reads the
article or paragraph aloud. Ted, amused, and grateful as well at the
manner in which the old keeper has gradually softened toward him, always
listens attentively, and courteously feigns interest, when he finds
he cannot command the real article. Mrs. Hartley, still busy about her
morning household duties, occasionally flits in and out of the room, and
Ted's eyes follow her devotedly every moment that she is there. He has
grown to love the dear old grandmother with the whole of his wayward
heart, and she seems to him the embodiment of all that is calm and
loving and benignant. Indeed, it were difficult to tell how much of the
blessed change that has been gradually coming over Ted is due to her
noble, placid face. He has sufficient knowledge of human nature to
realize that nothing but years and years of noblest thinking and doing
will bring that look into a face, and he finds his soul fairly bowing
down before her. On one of these busy flittings of Mrs. Hartley's, Ted
has detained her for a moment, to ask some trifling question, and just
as she is about to make a reply, Chris, returning from his daily
ride into Nuneham for the mail, swings into the room with his breezy,
postman-like air, and empties the contents of the little Hartley
mail-bag upon the table.
[Illustration: 0115]
“It's all settled, granny dear,” he says, as he picks out two letters
and hands them to Ted; “I've had a letter from Marie-Celeste and one
from Mr. Harris, and he'll be down to-morrow on the three-o'clock
train.”
“My goodness!” mutters Ted under his breath, staring at Chris a moment
in blank astonishment, and then straightway pretends to be all absorbed
in his own mail. One or two college bills, forwarded by Harry Allyn from
Oxford, were all there was to it, for, alas! there were no home letters
for Ted in these days of self-imposed exile from kith and kin. The
bills, however, gave him a chance to pull himself together, as he made
a ruse of carefully examining them, while his heart thumped like a
trip-hammer at the thought of Uncle Fritz coming down to Nuneham and
finding him stranded there, helpless, good-for-nothing fellow that he
felt himself to be.
“You say you saw a great deal of him on the steamer, Chris?” said Mrs.
Hartley, who had seated herself in the nearest chair, awaiting the
budget of news that Chris always endeavored to bring out from Nuneham,
for the enlivening of the old people.
“Yes, granny, a great deal. I really don't know how he would have
managed but for me.”
“That's cool,” thought Ted; “I'm sure Uncle Fritz seems quite able to
take care of himself.”
“And he's a good-looking little fellow, is he, Chris?”
“Good-looking and good-natured, granny dear; you'll take to him right
from the start.”
Well, this was passing comprehension! Uncle Fritz a good-looking,
good-natured little fellow; and forgetting everything else in his
amazement, Ted turned from Chris to Mrs. Hartley, and back again
to Chris, in hopeless bewilderment, while they, wholly unobservant,
continued to converse in what seemed to him most idiotic fashion.
They talked about his illness, and of how kind Marie-Celeste and her
Cousin Harold had been to him, and of what wonders they hoped Nuneham
would do for him, and of how, for his own sake, they must continue to
keep him busy in little matters about the farm.
“Really,” said Ted at last, able to stand it no longer, and looking
pathetically toward Chris, “I don't mean to be inquisitive, but do I
understand you that the father of your friend, Marie-Celeste, is coming
here to your cottage to recruit from some illness, and that you plan to
entertain him by putting him to work on the farm?”
If either Chris or Mrs. Hartley had been close observers of human
nature, they would have been almost alarmed at the expression on Ted's
face. It was as though he felt himself in some way impelled to ask a
question which proclaimed him a pitiful lunatic on the face of it.
“Oh, dear, no!” laughed Chris; “I--”
“Well, that's exactly what you said,” interrupted Ted. “You said you had
a letter from Marie-Celeste and one from her father, and that he'd
be down on the three-o'clock train to-morrow.” Ted spoke petulantly,
feeling it was inexcusable to scare a fellow half to death in that
manner.
“Well, _he_, Mr. Morris,” ascribing Ted's petulance to the nervousness
of slow convalescence, “happens to mean a little sailor boy who crossed
on the steamer with us, and about whom Mr. Harris and I have been
corresponding. It was funny enough that you should have applied all I
have said to a man like Mr. Harris.”
Ted did not think it so very funny, and his face showing it, Chris
continued in a half-apologetic tone, “I ought to have told you about
him, Mr. Morris, and I thought I had and then, by the way of making
amends, Chris proceeded to narrate all the details of Donald's various
experiences in a way that was somewhat of a bore to one who knew it all
as Ted did.
“Well,” he thought, when he was finally left to himself once more, it's
out of the frying-pan and into the fire,' or something very much like
it. Of course I'll have to take Donald into my confidence; but like as
not he'll come suddenly upon me, and blurt out just who I am before I
get a chance to give him a point or two. There's no doubt about it, 'the
way of the transgressor _is_ hard'--very hard indeed and with a grim
sort of smile on his face, Ted gathered his dressing-gown about him, and
with rather shaky steps sought the seclusion of his own little room.