[Illustration: 9159]
It was a close foggy morning in London, and Mr. Everett Belden, having
breakfasted a whole hour earlier than usual, stood gazing out upon the
street from one of the windows of the Reform Club. It is two months
now since we let him go his lonely way from the steamer; and this
may surprise you, for what with the doings up at Windsor and the
complications in the cottage at Nuneham, you may not have kept any track
of the time. None the less is it true that in all this while we have not
given so much as a thought to Mr. Belden or to aught that concerns him;
and for all I know it is just as well. The little “buttons” who keeps
guard during the day at the door of the Reform Club and the smartly
liveried Irishman who takes his place at night would both tell you that
Mr. Belden has come in and out all the while with great regularity,
having his saddle horse brought around at precisely the same hour every
clear morning, and going out for a walk at precisely the same hour every
afternoon. There is no evidence that in all these weeks he has been
of the least real use to anybody, or that, notwithstanding his recent
encounter with a little girl who had set him thinking rather seriously
for a time, he had in any way altered or modified his selfish way of
living. They are creatures of habit these self-centred old bachelors,
and it takes a great deal to start them out along any new line of
action, and doubly so when, like Mr. Belden, they do not know what it
is to feel buoyantly well and strong. And so to all outward appearances
there was no change whatever in this particular old bachelor, and the
little sermon Marie-Celeste had unconsciously preached on the steamer
and the reading of the “Story of a Short Life” had only given him a
glimpse of what a noble thing life might be, without awakening any real
determination to make his own life noble. But outward appearances, as
often happens, are not by any means the infallible things the world
would have us believe, and deep down in Mr. Belden's heart had dropped a
little seed of unrest that made itself felt that sultry August morning;
not but that his heart was all unrest for that matter, for there is no
restlessness in the world like the restlessness of doing nothing; but
this little seed was of a new and different character, and with such
power of growth in it that, tiny though it was, it finally compelled Mr.
Belden to take it into account.
“How queer it is,” he said to himself, “that I should feel constrained
in this way to run out to Windsor! Land knows! I have no desire to come
to be on intimate terms of acquaintance with Evelyn's boys; and what
would be the satisfaction of prowling around just to see where they
live? Their father gave me up after that time he spoke his mind so
freely about my aimless life--as he was pleased to call it--and there
is no reason whatever why I should bother myself about my sister's
children, since she, poor thing! is dead and gone, and they have enough
of this world's goods to make them comfortable. But I would give--yes,
I would give a great deal for another glimpse of that child
Marie-Celeste--for another talk with her, too, before she goes sailing
back to the States, if only that were possible without my coming in
contact with any of the rest of the household. Well, there seems to be
nothing for it but to go to Windsor to-day, for it looks as though I
should not get the best of this state of mind till I do.” Then he turned
from the window, put on his coat, which was lying in readiness beside
him, strolled out from the club, called for a hansom, directing the
driver to take him to the station, and never for one minute admitted to
himself that he had risen a whole hour earlier in order to do this very
thing, or that he was acting on any stronger impulse than that of
a passing fancy, born of the midsummer day, and desire for a little
variety. So, out to Windsor he went, and choosing from among the
carriages at the depot one that was manned by a respectable-looking old
party, took his place on the front seat beside him, remarking that he
had simply come down to see the town, and would first like to drive
about for an hour.
The driver, judging from Mr. Belden's faultless attire and distinguished
bearing, had rated him at once as one of those high and mighty
Londoners, and had expected that he would of course entrench himself on
the back seat of the little turnout and, preserving a dignified silence,
condescendingly allow himself to be driven about and to be very much
bored into the bargain--all of which, it must be confessed, would
have been more in keeping with Mr. Belden's usual manner of conducting
himself. To-day, however, he had an axe to grind, and the friendly
intercourse of the front seat would prove more conducive to the end in
view.
“Ever been ere before?” questioned the coachman, ready to prove himself
friendly with the friendly.
“I was at Eton half a term when a boy, but I didn't take to the old
place, and cut and run away the first chance.”
“And 'aven't you 'ad any schoolin' since, sir?”
“Oh, yes; I tutored awhile at home--just enough to wriggle my way into
Cambridge; and I studied just enough there to get my degree--no more,
I can tell you. I have been one of those fellows who didn't believe in
taking unnecessary trouble.”
“You look it,” said the man honestly.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Belden, thinking he was willing to face
the music.
“Well, you 'ave a lazy, listless sort of look--begging your pardon,
sir--like most of those men who loaf their lives away at the clubs up in
London.”
Mr. Belden naturally felt irritated at the fellow's blunt honesty,
but there was no sense in resenting a state of affairs which he had
deliberately brought down upon himself.
“You look the perfect gentleman, all the same,” added the man; and
endeavoring to extract a grain of comfort from this last remark, Mr.
Belden thought best to change the subject.
“Do you happen to know,” he asked quite casually, “of any people here in
Windsor named Harris?”
“Oh, yes, sir; there are two young gentlemen named 'Arris, whose mother
died two years back, living in the Little Castle. Do you know them,
sir?”
“I know of them.”
“Would you like to call there, sir?”
“No; I'd rather like to see the house, though.”
“It's a 'alf a mile back, sir, near the big Castle. We can take it in on
our way 'ome.”
“No; turn round; if it's all the same to you we'll go there now;”
and this last a little gruffly; for one has to be a good deal of a
philosopher to continue on the friendliest of terms with a man that has
just informed you that you look listless and lazy.
The driver was rather surprised at Mr. Belden's changed mood, but the
little carriage was turned round promptly in obedience to orders, and
the old horse whipped into a canter.
“Don't do that,” said Mr. Belden sharply; “there's no need to hurry and
the horse was instantly jerked down to a pace more in accordance with
his own ideas of comfort and propriety.
“Tell me what you know about these Harris boys,” said Mr. Belden
imperiously.
“I'm not in the way to know much, sir”--preferring to be civil at any
cost than to lose the probable extra shilling “the young un is an Eton
boy, and the older one studies up to Hoxford. The old un's a tough un,
they say, but he seems a decent enough sort of fellow.”
“Does the young one live alone here at Windsor?”
“Don't know about that, sir; but I've 'eard they 'ave some company from
the States this summer. That's the house yonder, with the pretty terrace
and the tower. They calls it the Little Castle.”
Mr. Belden looked in the direction indicated, and--could he believe his
eyes!--was there not a familiar little figure coming leisurely down
the path from the Little Castle, which when it reached the gate in the
hedgerow turned in the same direction as they were driving?
“Whip up,” ordered Mr. Belden impatiently, for he wanted to be a little
more sure in the matter. Yes, it was certainly Marie-Celeste. There was
no mistaking the free, quick step nor the alert bearing.
“Stop!” commanded Mr. Belden, and the carriage came to a standstill with
paralyzing abruptness “Now, turn your wheel and let me out. There's your
money.”
Instantly perceiving that he had been generously compensated, the man
smiled an appreciative “Thank you,” and then watched Mr. Belden stride
up the street, with the conclusion that he was “a little off;” but the
more “off” the better, he thought, if it meant three half-crowns for a
drive of a quarter of an hour.
Marie-Celeste walked briskly on up the hill, and Mr. Belden would have
given three half-crowns more with a will to any one who could have told
him where she was going. He would prefer to come across her more by
accident apparently than by running to catch up with her, and when so
near, too, to the Little Castle as to suggest that he had probably come
to Windsor purposely to see her. If she should happen to turn in at
some house, he decided he would try to intercept her before she rang
the bell, so that they might have at least a few moments' chat, but
otherwise he would bide his time a little while and see what came of it.
She had a sort of portfolio under her arm; it was not unlikely she was
going to some lesson or other, and if so, alas! where would the chat
come in? But, as you and I happen to know, nothing was farther from
Marie-Celeste's thought that happy summer, withal she was learning so
much, than any idea of lessons, and on she went till she vanished from
sight through one of the castle gates. Then Mr. Belden quickened his
steps, and arrived at the inner side of the same gate just in time to
see her disappear within St. George's Chapel.
“Which way did that little girl go?” he asked of the sexton, who was
vigorously burnishing a brass memorial tablet just within the doorway of
the chapel.
“Do you mean Marie-Celeste, sir?”
[Illustration: 0164]
“Yes;” but naturally wondering that the man should know her name.
“You are likely to find her right in there, sir,” indicating the
direction by a nod of his head. “She was coming in some day to copy off
part of the inscription from the Prince Imperial's tomb.”
So this old sexton and Marie-Celeste were evidently on the best of
terms, and the child, with her genius for making friends, was probably
in the confidence of half of Windsor by this time; and Mr. Belden
selfishly wished she would not be so indiscriminate in her friendships.
The “right in there” of the sexton evidently referred to Braye Chapel,
within a few feet of the door by which he had entered; and glancing
in through the open-work carving of the partition enclosing it, he
discovered Marie-Celeste seated on a cushion on the floor, her back
against the wall, busily writing away on the portfolio on her lap.
Mr. Belden moved noiselessly to the doorway, and stood unobserved,
looking down upon her for several seconds, until glancing up for the
next sentence in the inscription, she suddenly beheld him.
“Why, Mr. Belden!” she cried, transfixed with surprise; “how long have
you been there, and wherever did you come from?”
“I have been here about a minute, I should say, and I ran out from
London this morning to take a look at old Windsor, and, you see, I have
had the good fortune, as I half hoped I should, to run across my little
steamer friend.”
“But you wouldn't have come down to Windsor without coming to see me,
Mr. Belden?” and Marie-Celeste, suddenly realizing that her position
was not the most dignified in the world, shut the portfolio together and
stood up to receive him in more courteous fashion.
“Well, to be quite honest, Marie-Celeste,” for the half-truths of
conventional acquaintance did not enter into this friendship, “I think I
might; I'm nothing of a hand at calling, you know, but I'm awfully glad,
I can tell you, to have met you just in this way, only you mustn't let
me interrupt you. You keep right on with your copying, and I'll wander
about till you've finished.”
“Oh, I had so much rather show you the chapel,” Marie-Celeste said
eagerly. “I can finish the copying any time, and I know about it almost
as well as the vergers themselves--_will_ you let me?” evidently afraid
that he would express a preference for a professional guide.
“Well, I can't imagine anything more delightful;” for which cordial
endorsement Marie-Celeste blushed her thanks.
“Well,” she said, very much impressed with the dignity of the
opportunity afforded her, “suppose we commence right here with this
monument to the Prince Imperial. Of course you will have to let me tell
you which are my favorites, and this is one of them. Somehow it seems
to me the very saddest monument in all the chapel; but I think it was
beautiful in Queen Victoria to have it placed here out of sympathy for
the poor French Empress, who had lost everything--husband and kingdom,
and, last of all, this brave son; for I think he must have been brave,
don't you, Mr. Belden? The same sort of bravery that Leonard--you
remember the 'Story of a Short Life,' don't you?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Well, I mean the same sort of bravery that Leonard would have shown if
he had lived to grow up, as he so longed to do, to be a soldier like the
Prince. And yet Leonard was just as brave in his own way, wasn't he?
It was the prayer that the Prince wrote in his mass-book that I was
copying; it is very beautiful, isn't it?”
There was no need for Mr. Belden to do aught but look and listen, and
drop a word of assent now and then, when Marie-Celeste saw fit to impart
her information in a somewhat interrogative form; and in this way they
went on from monument to monument, giving of course but a passing glance
to many and stopping longest, by tacit agreement, at those which had
some special charm or attraction for Marie-Celeste.
“This is one of my greatest favorites,” she exclaimed enthusiastically,
as they came to the late Dean Wellesley's monument, in the north aisle;
and she stood in rapt admiration looking down at the beautiful recumbent
figure. “Isn't that a glorious face, Mr. Belden?” she said in an
earnest, low voice; “and I love what it says about him here on the
side--'_Trained_ in a school of duty and honor'--because his face bears
it out, Mr. Belden. It shows, I think, how noble he must have been
through and through all his life long.”
“What a little hero-worshipper you are, Marie-Celeste,” said 'Mr.
Belden, looking kindly and thoughtfully down at her glowing face.
“Well,” replied Marie-Celeste as thoughtfully, “I don't see how anybody
can help being a hero-worshipper, and doing all they can to be heroes
themselves.”
“Well, some people do, Marie-Celeste--I have helped it all my life
somehow.”
“Yes; I remember you told me something like that on the steamer; but
it's a great pity, and it seems to me--”
“What seems to you?” for Marie-Celeste hesitated.
“Are you sure you will not mind, for I only mean to be friendly?”
“Surely I will not mind.”
“Well, then, it seems to me I would try to be a hero at one great jump,
to make up for all the lost time.”
“And how would you manage it, Marie-Celeste?”
“I believe I would begin to think out some beautiful thing to do with my
money before I died.”
“There is a great deal in what you say, dear child,” Mr. Belden replied
earnestly, “and I will think about it; and yet, do you know, I would
not have let anybody else in the world make that suggestion to me;” but
significant as this last remark was intended to be, Marie-Celeste, to
Mr. Belden's surprise, paid little heed to it; for what difference did
that make, so long as, without taking offence, he had allowed her to
tell him what was for his own good?
“Isn't this a beautiful inscription?” she said, pausing for a moment
before the monument of George V., the last king of Hanover. “They say
he was blind, and that after his death his kingdom became just a part
of Germany, and that is the reason they wrote here, 'Receiving a kingdom
which cannot be moved,' and, 'In thy light shall he see light.'”
And so the tour of the chapel was at last made; and although his little
guide had omitted much historical detail that the professional would
have furnished, she had put in with telling force many little points of
her own.
When they reached the doorway of the chapel, Mr. Belden stood watch in
hand, for he had decided he would take the two-o'clock train back to
London, while Marie-Celeste ran on telling how Donald had gone to stay
with Chris at Nuneham, and various other matters about Ted and Harold
that were of more interest to Mr. Belden than she had any idea of.
Finally, in breathless, excited fashion, she told of the visit to the
Queen she and Albert had made, and of how she had handled with her own
hands treasures that had belonged to Madame La Petite Reine. Of course
it seemed almost incredible, but then the “incredible” was coming to
seem rather a part of Marie-Celeste's make-up in Mr. Belden's mind. At
last, when he felt that he must not delay another moment, he took leave
of her, saying as he went, “Well, as usual you have set me thinking,
my little friend,” but as though he were grateful for the same;
and Marie-Celeste, turning back to finish the copying of the Prince
Imperial's prayer, wondered in her practical little way if anything
would come of the thinking, and if so, if she would ever happen to hear
what it was; and yet at the same time not a little sceptical as to any
tangible result whatsoever.