[Illustration: 9179]
Marie-Celeste!” gasped Ted, letting his book fall from his hands.
“Cousin Ted!” gasped Marie-Celeste; and flop went the cup-custard over
on one side, and then rolled off of the tray altogether. Perhaps you
think gasped is a pretty strong word; but when you are fairly taken off
your feet with surprise, you can't for the very first moment do much
better with words than gasp them.
“Where did you come from, Marie-Celeste?” Ted demanded almost roughly,
and as though she had no right in the world to come from any place
whatsoever.
“How do you come to be here, Cousin Theodore?” parrying question
with question, and drawing her little figure to its full height, in
resentment of the tone in which Ted had spoken.
“Oh, you need not make any pretence,” Ted said sarcastically. “Donald
has been mean enough to go back on me, and you know all there is to
tell. I can see through the whole thing, cup-custard, sponge-cake and
all, and Harold 'll be down here in a moment to help lord it over the
prodigal.”
“What do you mean. Ted?” for she really did not understand all he said.
“Donald hasn't told me anything, nor Harold, nor anybody. They've all
gone off to see some cows somewhere, and Mrs. Hartley asked me if I
would not take this little tray down to Mr. Morris, the gentleman who
had met with the accident,” and Marie-Celeste gave a comprehensive
glance through the little orchard, as though still expecting to discover
the real object of her search under some neighboring tree.
“I am the gentleman who met with the accident,” said Ted, smiling in
spite of himself, “and my name is supposed to be Morris.”
The smile relieved matters somewhat, and Marie-Celeste, setting the
little tray on the ground, picked up the cup-custard, which had suffered
nothing by its fall, and putting it back in its place on the tray, took
a seat in the corner of the rug, to which Ted motioned her, and then
clasping her two hands round her knees, asked in a tone of most earnest
inquiry, “Now tell me, Cousin Theodore, why do you do things like this?”
“You mean, why do I let myself be thrown out of my trap in a runaway
accident, and then be foolish enough to let myself be almost killed into
the bargain?”
“Have you really had an accident, Ted?” with a solicitude that went
straight to Ted's heart.
“Yes, considerable of an accident. I fancy it would have done for me,
Marie-Celeste, if I had not fallen into the hands of these good people
here.”
“But oh, Ted,” why didn't you send us word? Mamma and I would have come
down and taken care of you every moment and she spoke as though they
would have just loved to do it.
“Marie-Celeste, you are a dear child;” and Ted, who was hungering at
last for the love of kith and kin, could not keep his eyes from growing
a little misty. He realized, too, how he had done absolutely nothing; to
warrant this little affectionate outburst, and felt sorely humiliated--a
sensation which had been very common to poor Ted of late.
“How did the accident happen?” asked Marie-Celeste; and touched by his
grave face, she moved a little farther up on the rug.
“Oh, by being a fool, as usual! We were off on a lark, four of us, and I
got into a fix so than I couldn't manage the horses, and--”
“Ted, do you mean”--and then Marie-Celeste hesitated--“do you mean that
you really took so much wine that you did not know what you were about?”
for she wanted to understand the whole matter clearly, no matter how
shocking it might prove.
“Yes, that was it, Marie-Celeste;” but the child little guessed how the
high-strung fellow winced under the confession, and how his self-disgust
never reached quite such high-water mark as at that moment.
“Well, go on,” said Marie-Celeste in a tone of utter hopelessness;
and then she added, with the air of a little grandmother, “don't keep
anything back, Ted; I would rather know all there is.”
“Well, that's about all there is, Marie-Celeste, and it's enough, isn't
it? I was caught under the trap as it went over, and they picked me up
as good as dead and carried me into the Hartleys.”
“But you told us all at Windsor you were going on a driving trip with
Mr. Allyn.”
“So I was before the accident.”
Marie-Celeste paused a moment to straighten things out in her mind; then
she asked, “But why, Ted, did you tell them your name was Morris?”
“Harry Allyn did that. He knew I would feel awfully mortified, and he
wanted Harold never to know.”
“He never shall,” Marie-Celeste said slowly, giving her full endorsement
to that part of the proceeding, and Ted inwardly pronounced her a dearer
child than ever.
“Where is Harry Allyn now?”
“He stops up at the hotel at Nuneham, and comes down to look after me
ever day.”
“Do his people know?”
“They know about the accident, but not where we are staying.”
“Oh, well, that makes me understand why Miss Allyn said she hardly
believed we would meet you on this driving trip. All the rest of us were
hoping we would. Miss Allyn would have hoped so, too, if she had not
known, I suppose.”
“Well, I don't suppose anything of the kind,” said Ted, “but what's this
about your driving trip, Marie-Celeste?”
“Oh, we're on your break, Ted--Harold couldn't write to ask for it,
you know, because we didn't know where you were, and we're stopping at
Oxford now; but we left papa and mamma and Miss Dorothy and Mr. Farwell
for to-day, because Harold and I preferred coming down here to surprise
Chris and Donald to seeing all the colleges in the world.”
“Who is Mr. Farwell?”
“Oh, he's a very nice young artist, a friend of papa's.”
“And he is taking a driving trip on my break, is he?” said Ted demurely,
and not appearing exactly to fancy the idea.
“Why, of course, as he's in our party, Ted.”
“Yes, I understand; and now, Marie-Celeste, you are going to help me
keep my secret, are you? But you know you're not to tell anybody for a
while, not even your father and mother; do you think you can do it?”
“I will surely do it, Cousin Theodore, if you will do something for me;
will you promise me you will?”
“If I can, little cousin;” for who could withstand the entreaty in the
earnest childish voice?
“Will you come home, Cousin Theodore, as soon as ever you can?”
“What's the use, Marie-Celeste? Nobody cares for me there any more, I've
been such a selfish, ungracious fellow this long while.”
“We all care for you, Ted, really, very much--papa and mamma and Harold
and I.”
“Well, that's very kind indeed of you; but then I suppose, as you're my
relations, it's only Christian for you to care a little.”
“But people care who are not your relations--Miss Dorothy Allyn cares,
and Albert.”
“How do you happen to know that.”
“Oh, because one day after Miss Allyn had been playing the organ in
St. George's--and oh! doesn't she play beautifully!--we talked a little
while on the Castle terrace, and we talked about you, and I asked her if
you were ever so nice as Harold, because we couldn't help being a little
disappointed in you, Cousin Ted, and she said yes, that you used to
be every bit as nice, and if you had not been spoiled up at Oxford you
would have turned out all right. She didn't say just those words, you
know, but that was the meaning.” Ted was silent for a few moments,
and when at last he spoke he said slowly, “Yes, I will come home,
Marie-Celeste, as soon as I can; I promise.”
[Illustration: 0183]
“Thank you, very much,” as though Ted had done her the greatest personal
favor; and then, seeming to feel that their talk had come to a natural
end, she asked quite casually, “Will you have the custard now?” and Ted
remarking quite as casually, “Yes, thank you, I will,” she lifted the
tray carefully into his lap. “Don't take very long to eat it, please,”
she urged, “for fear Mrs. Hartley should wonder why I do not come hack
and Ted obeyed orders with an alacrity rather menacing to his digestive
powers.
“What shall I say to Mrs. Hartley?” Marie-Celeste asked with a puzzled
frown.
“Say everything, Marie-Celeste; tell her all about me. Explain to Donald
first, and get him to take Harold off' somewhere, and then tell all the
others--Mr. and Mrs. Hartley and Chris and Martha. It is not that I lack
the courage to tell them myself, it's only that it will be easier
for them to learn it from you, you have such an innocent way of going
straight to the heart of a matter. Besides, how could they hear it
better than from my good little angel?”
“Your good little angel! Oh, you don't know me, Cousin Ted! I'm anything
but an angel. I was bad as I could be for three whole days together a
few weeks ago--you ask Donald! Listen! they are calling me up at the
cottage. Take that last spoonful of custard quickly, please; it's good
for you. Good-by, now,” printing a hearty little kiss on his grateful
face, “and remember your promise;” and then, carefully lifting the tray,
she sped back to the cottage, cheerily calling, “Yes, I'm coming,” to
Donald, who was on his way to meet her.
“Marie-Celeste, what have you done?” and Donald's face looked the
picture of despair as he came toward her; nevertheless, he was gallant
enough to relieve her of the tray, with its empty dishes.
“You mean about my finding out about Cousin Ted?”
Donald simply nodded yes; he had no heart for words.
“Well, I couldn't help it, Donald; Mrs. Hartley asked me to carry some
custard and sponge-cake to the gentleman under the apple-tree--was it
my fault that the gentleman happened to be Ted, I'd like to know?” for
never were there more accusing eyes than Donald's.
“Oh, no; not your fault, but it's a pity to have the whole thing
spoiled. We've kept the secret so carefully.”
“And do you think it can't be a secret any longer because I happen to be
in it?”
That was exactly what Donald felt sure of, but he contrived to say, “I
didn't suppose you'd see the need of its being kept--I'm glad if you
do;” but there was no real gladness evident, for Donald's tone was
hopeless in the extreme.
“All the same, you don't think I'll keep it, Donald,” her little face
really grieved. “You think because I'm a girl that I'll tell mamma, and
then before I know it somebody else,” and therein Marie-Celeste proved
herself a veritable little mind-reader. “Well, now, Donald, you'll see!
and perhaps you'll come to understand girls better this summer, and have
more respect for them in the future.”
Donald took his lecture very meekly, knowing well that he deserved
it, but still doubtful of Marie-Celeste's boasted ability in the
secret-keeping line.
“Cousin Ted has more confidence in me than you, Donald,” still
exercising her mind-reading proclivities. “He's asked me to tell the
Hartleys all about him this very day. He doesn't want any unnecessary
secrets kept any longer, and you're to take Harold off somewhere while I
tell them.”
“It seems to me Ted ought to tell them himself,” said Donald, shaking
his head in disapproval; for you see he really feared that Ted lacked
the necessary courage, although he could understand how much it must
mean to him to have the Hartleys realize that he had such a good friend
as Marie-Celeste at court. But Donald afterward exonerated Ted from any
lack of courage, and was of course delighted when he found that she had
pleaded his cause so eloquently as to convince even the old keeper that
Ted was fully justified in the course he had thought best to pursue.
[Illustration: 0185]
Never was fairy tale listened to with more rapt attention than
Marie-Celeste's narration of the ups and downs of Ted's life as she
knew them, and never was heart more gladly grateful than hers when she
realized that these good friends were more than willing, for the sake
of the end in view, to condone the deception practised upon them. It is
such a fine thing when people show themselves fair-minded and reasonable
under circumstances that put their fair-mindedness to so much of a test.
“Well, well, well, it's a queer world,” said old Mr. Hartley, resting
his elbows on his knees, and drawing circles and squares with his cane
on the gravel beneath the old settle--“it's so remarkable that Mr.
Morris (for he could not drop the name at once) should have fallen right
into our hands here. Seems to me as though God never changed any of
the real laws of things, but as though He ordered the working of them
together for good in a very wonderful way, just as the Scripture says He
do;” and a good many other people, who have not lived in this world more
than half as long as old Mr. Hartley, are willing to go the whole length
of this statement, and to defend it, if need be, with page after page
from their own experience.
It was just at this point in the conversation that Donald and Harold
came upon the scene, and hearing all of Mr. Hartley's last remark,
Donald felt sure that the old keeper, of whom he, as well as Ted and
Harry Allyn, stood in not a little awe, was not going to take offence
at the new turn affairs had taken; while Harold, to whom it sounded
as though they had been having a somewhat prosy sermon, rather
congratulated himself that Donald had carried him off to see a
neighbor's kennels down the river. But now there was time for little
more than good-bys, and Chris, who had slipped away to harness Jennie,
was at the door; and with farewells as hearty as though they had been
friends for a lifetime, Harold and Marie-Celeste climbed into the
Saxon wagon, and amid much demonstration on every side were off for
the Nuneham station; but Harold wondered that Donald did not drive into
Nuneham with them, and said so.
“I suppose,” said Marie-Celeste, addressing Chris with a knowing look
in her eyes, “he has things to attend to about the farm this time in the
afternoon?”
“Yes, he has,” answered Chris, with a look just as knowing, for both
were well aware that as soon as their backs were turned Donald would fly
to Ted's rescue from his overlong quarantine down under the apple-tree,
and all the significant glances went on right under Harold's eyes, with
never a suspicion on his part. Indeed, Chris and Marie-Celeste, just for
the fun of it, indulged in some decidedly pointed remarks, relying (and
in Harold's case with considerable risk ) upon the literalness of the
average boy of sixteen to let their real meaning escape him.
“Custard and sponge-cake is not very staying,” said Ted, after Donald
had told him the good news of how kindly the Hartleys had received
Marie-Celeste's surprising revelations, and they were on their way to
the cottage.
“Why, you haven't had any dinner, Mr. Harris?” a paralyzing recollection
coming over him.
“Who promised to bring it to me, Donald?”
“Oh, Mr. Harris, it's all my fault! Martha gave it to me just before
our own dinner was ready, and I set it on the feed-box a moment, while
I shook down some hay for Jennie in the barn, and Chris called me, and
that was the last I thought of it, and it must be there now.”
But Donald was mistaken; one of a litter of rather young setter puppies,
but with the sense of scent well developed, had scaled the sides of
the low feed-box, and now lay on its side by the empty plate, feeling
somewhat the worse for its foraging expedition.
“But dinners are not so reviving as good news, Donald,” said Ted
excusingly; and indeed, notwithstanding diminished rations, he felt
wonderfully toned up both in mind and body, now that the good friends
in the cottage knew just who he was and there was no longer need for any
sort of duplicity.
With all Ted's faults he was as open as the day, and the part which
Harry and discretion and the Doctor had mapped out for him to play had
been harder than you can imagine.
CHAPTER XVIII.--RATHER A BOOKISH CHAPTER.
[Illustration: 9188]
The old belfry clock was striking eight as Harold and Marie-Celeste put
in an appearance at the lodgings where the little party were staying in
Oxford, and of course there was a great deal to be told; but alas!
too, for Marie-Celeste so much that must not be told, under any
circumstances. If you think it easy to be sole possessor of a piece of
news that would rejoice the hearts of your nearest and dearest, and yet
for extreme precaution's sake have given your promise on no account
to divulge it, why then all that can be said is that you were never in
Marie-Celeste's shoes. If it had been an uncomfortable piece of news it
would have been vastly easier. There ought to be no pleasure at all
in conveying bad news to people, though here and there, it must be
confessed, one sometimes meets individuals who seem to rejoice in any
news whatsoever, and the more startling and surprising the better.
But Marie-Celeste succeeded in getting through the first few hours
without telling: the two hours with Harold on the train, a very trying
half hour when she was all alone with her mother, and another trying
half hour the next morning, when she was sitting in the breakfast-room
with Dorothy; and after that the worst was over, so many delightful
things came along to claim everyone's thought and attention. And one
of the most delightful things of all--at least in the children's
estimation--came with that Sunday afternoon in Oxford, and Dorothy was
the one to be thanked for it.
It seemed that in one of the colleges somebody lived who Marie-Celeste
would have given more to see, next to the Queen (and, as you know, she
had seen her without the asking), than any one else in England, and that
was the man who calls himself Lewis Carroll, and who has written
those incomparable books, “Through the Looking-Glass” and “Alice in
Wonderland.” If it is possible that any little friend of these stories
of mine has never happened to have read them, then let me urge you
at once to give Aunt Bess or Uncle Jack no rest till both are in your
keeping, with your name written very legibly across the fly-leaf of
each, so that you can keep them for your very own till you've no more
use for any books whatsoever. And while you are about it, why not put
in a plea for Kingsley's “Water Babies,” too, which is of the same
beautiful dreamland type; and please do not think for a moment that you
are too old for any of the three. Why, some one I know, who is well on
to forty, just revels in those same three books, and, for that matter,
there are some things in them that you cannot fully take in even then.
And in this connection perhaps it is fair to tell you, in case you do
not happen to know it already, that it is twenty years and more since
these books were written; but then of course you are sensible enough to
see that that is ever so much more to their credit. Indeed, it was just
because they were written so long ago that the visit of which I am about
to tell you came to pass. Twenty years before Dorothy's father had been
rector of a church there in Oxford, and though Dorothy was only two
years old at that time, and her brother Harry but a year and a half
older, they had been great pets, babies though they were, with the
author of “Wonderland” and “Through the Looking-Glass,” and Mr.
Dodgson--for that is Lewis Carroll's real name--had been in and out of
Canon Allyn's house almost every day in the week. And what was true of
Canon Allyn's house was true of many another house in Oxford where there
were children; and so you see it was because of this old-time intimacy
with Lewis Carroll that Dorothy had made bold to write and ask if she
might bring Harold and Marie-Celeste to call upon him. But for some
reason or other Mr. Dodgson no longer cares to see as much of the little
people as formerly; in fact, he rather runs away from them when they
seek him out; and when he received Dorothy's letter, what did he do but
write her that he was very sorry to say that he would not be at home on
the afternoon in question, but that if it would be any pleasure to her
little friends to see his rooms, she might bring them there and welcome,
and that he would leave some old photographs that he thought would
interest them ready to her hand in a portfolio on the writing-table.
And so they were not to see “Lewis Carroll,” which was of course
considerable of a disappointment to Marie-Celeste and Harold, and
to Dorothy as well; but all the same the recollection of that Sunday
afternoon in Oxford will doubtless long hold its place among the most
delightful memories of their lives.
It was only two o'clock when they set out, and a walk up the beautiful
High Street, past the spires and domes, brick windows and massive
gateways of the old churches and colleges that line it, and then a turn
at the corner of Aldgate Street, soon brought them to Christ Church. Mr.
Carroll's rooms--for he prefers doubtless to be Mr. Carroll to those
of us who know him only through his books--. were of course the first
object of interest, and Dorothy, who remembered where they were from
a more fortunate visit of a few years before, when they had not been
obliged, as to-day, to count without their host, led the way through the
Entrance Gateway, well worthy of its old name of “The Faire Gate.”
Over this entrance looms the beautiful tower containing Great Tom, an
old, old bell that tolls a curfew of one hundred and one strokes every
night as a signal for the closing of the college. And Great Tom looks
down on one of those quadrangles which at Christ Church, as indeed at
all the colleges, forms one of the most attractive features. In many
cases the walls of the buildings which surround the quadrangles on the
four sides are almost hid beneath a luxurious growth of English ivy,
while from April to December the lawns that carpet them are green with
the wonderful depth of color peculiar to lawns that have been cultivated
for centuries.
The windows of Mr. Carroll's rooms open on the “Ton Quad,” as it
is called, because of the nearness to Great Tom, and they found the
janitor, who had been informed of their coming, ready to unlock the door
for them.
“Do you think we have driven Mr. Dodgson away by planning to come here
this afternoon?” asked Dorothy, feeling that this invasion of a man's
room in his absence bordered on intrusion, and hesitating to step over
the threshold.
“Like as not, mum,” replied the old janitor honestly, “he's grown that
averse to mingling much with folk, be they big or little.”
“But he wrote me very cordially to come, only that he had an engagement
and would not be at home.”
“Then he probably told you the truth, mum. He often goes off on a
ten-mile tramp of a Sunday afternoon with one of the professors. He left
word that he'd not be home till six, mum, so you needn't be thinking of
leaving till half-past five, mum;” and so it was plainly evident that
Lewis Carroll wanted to run no risk of seeing them at either end of
their visit, and Dorothy could not help feeling a little piqued.
“I am sorry Mr. Dodgson is so much afraid of meeting us,” she said with
a sigh; “we used to live in Oxford, and he was a good friend of mine
when I was a child. It seems strange he ceases to care for his little
friends as soon as they are grown up.”
“You must leave an old bachelor to his foibles, mum. It seems as though
they must have them of one sort or another. I'm a bachelor myself, mum,
and have me own little peculiarities, they tell me, mum.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, please look here! These are the photographs Mr.
Carroll wrote you about!” called Marie-Celeste, for she and Harold had
had no misgivings whatever about making their way into a room to which
they had been granted privileged entrance; and after a reconnoitring
tour round its borders had naturally brought up at the portfolio, to
which their attention had been specially directed in Mr. Carroll's note.
“The door has a spring lock, mum,” explained the janitor; “will
you kindly make sure to close it on leaving?” and with this parting
injunction he left them to their own devices.
It seems that in the old days, when Lewis Carroll loved to play host
to the children, they would often come to take afternoon tea in his
lodgings, and then likely as not, if the light were good, he would
spirit them into a 'room fitted up for the purpose and take their
pictures; and then, if they promised to be good and not to bother, they
might follow him into the queer-smelling little room where he made the
pictures come out, and they would be permitted to have a look at the
dripping glass plate, from which they could seldom make head nor tail,
held up against the dark-room's lantern for inspection. But, all the
same, their faith in the result was supreme; for what could a wizard not
do who could weave fairy-tales so wonderfully as not to have them
seem like fairy-tales at all. And so this portfolio, extended to its
uttermost, was literally stuffed with pictures; and what did they
discover, to their surprised delight, lying right on the top of the
pile, but three or four unmistakable photographs of Harry and Dorothy
Allyn, which had evidently been placed there by design. Dorothy was
pleased at this little attention, and partly forgave Mr. Carroll his
antipathy to renewing old friendships.
[Illustration: 0192]
The pictures themselves were as funny as could be, and the Harry Allyn
of those days was wonderfully like the Albert Allyn of these; so that a
council was held on the spot, and the resolution carried that they would
leave a little note on Mr. Carroll's table, humbly begging for one
of the pictures, that they might have the pleasure of showing them to
interested parties at Windsor.
The inspection of the photographs once over, the little party settled
themselves to “taking the little sitting-room in,” as they said, and
there was little, you may be sure, that escaped them.
The curious old fire-irons were noted, the subjects of the pictures on
the walls, the books on the shelves, and a remarkable paper-knife and
quaint old inkstand upon the table.
Marie-Celeste, to whom this visit meant more than to Harold and Dorothy,
even made so bold as to glance through an intervening portière to the
bachelor bedroom beyond; and yet you must know that there was not a
vestige of prying curiosity in this investigating mood of hers. The next
thing, and sometimes a better thing than knowing your favorite author,
is to know how and where he lives; and it was a matter of supreme
delight to Marie-Celeste that henceforth when she should open Lewis
Carroll's books she should be able to picture him working away here in
his study, and just as he really looked, too, for by chance or accidents
full-length photograph stood on the mantel, which Dorothy, from her
visita few years before, was able to pronounce an excellent likeness,
and very characteristic.
“I would like to be able to say I had sat exactly where 'Alice'
was written,” said Marie-Celeste, slipping into the chair at the
writing-table. “Do you think I could honestly?”
“Well, both table and chair look old enough,” Dorothy considerately
replied; “but I don't believe books like those are written much in
regular places at all. It seems as though 'Alice' must at least have
been made up out on the river, even if there were not three little pairs
of childish hands to steer and guide the boat, as the verses at the
beginning would have us believe.”
“Oh, but I do believe there were, Miss Dorothy!” said Marie-Celeste
warmly; “don't you remember it says,
“' All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide,
For both our oars with little skill
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.'”
And then in another verse in just so many words, 'Thus grew the tale
of Wonderland.' Oh, yes, I choose to believe everything in those two
books.”
“Well, I don't blame you,” laughed Dorothy, “for everything is told as a
matter of course, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for
a rabbit to carry white gloves, and for little girls to seek advice of
caterpillars.”
“Well, the parts I used to like best were the verses;” for Harold, after
the manner of the genus who pride themselves on early outgrowing many
of the best things of life, relegated the books to the days of his early
childhood; “the stories themselves always seemed more meant for girls
than for boys.”
“Now, excuse me, Harold,” said Marie-Celeste, bristling up a little,
“but I don't see why you boys are so afraid of peeping into what you
call a girl's book. Of course there are books that tell only about girls
that you wouldn't like. To tell the truth, I don't care much for them
myself; but if a book ever happens to have a kind of girlish name to it,
that settles it at once. Now, suppose it were possible for any one to
write a story about me; I presume they would have to give a sort of
girl's name to the story; but would that mean that it was all about
girls? Well, I guess not;” and Marie-Celeste laughed as she realized how
wide such an estimate would fall of the mark. “Chris would be in it,
of course, and you and Donald and--” and Marie-Celeste was going to
say Ted, but checked herself in time to make an exchange for Mr.
Belden--“and Albert. Why, gracious, Harold, come to think of it, I
haven't a girl friend this summer--only Miss Dorothy here, if she will
excuse me.”
“And it's a pity about me, isn't it, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy slyly,
“for the author might feel that as I am your friend he ought to put mein
somewhere, and that would make it a little more about girls, you see,
and probably spoil the story.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, you know what I mean; it isn't that I don't like
girls, it's only that a book like 'Alice' ought to have just as much
interest for boys as girls;” for all Marie-Celeste had in mind was the
defence of the imputation that Lewis Carroll's books were “just girls'
books.”
“If all the remarkable things in those two stories,” she continued, “had
happened to a 'Jack' instead of an 'Alice,' I should have loved it just
as much, I am sure.”
“Oh, well, you needn't be quite so hard on me,” Harold replied,
improving the first opportunity to put in a word, and very much amused
at Marie-Celeste's little tirade. “I fancy, on the whole, you don't know
much more about 'Alice's' adventures than I do.”
This last remark Marie-Celeste chose to regard as a challenge, and then
followed such a rehearsal of Alice's varied experiences as would have
done Lewis Carroll's heart good to hear. Both eager to show how much
they remembered, the moment either paused for the fraction of a second,
the other would take it up, and so the whole ground was pretty well
gone over. Harold's principal achievement lay in “The Walrus and the
Carpenter,” and Marie-Celeste's in the recitation of “Jabberwocky”
from “Through the Looking-Glass;” for not only was she able to slip
its almost unpronounceable words quite easily from her tongue, but she
remembered the explanation of them given by Humpty Dumpty, when Alice
appeals to him a little later on in the story, and he modestly informs
her that he can explain all the poems that ever were invented, “and a
good many beside that haven't been invented just yet.”
“It's getting near four o'clock,” said Dorothy, feeling at last that she
must interrupt the flow of conversation, no matter how interesting; “let
us write the note asking for the picture, and then see something of the
rest of the college.”
So the note was written and left conspicuously upon the writing-table;
and then with one long farewell glance about them, and a flower
stolen from a vase by Marie-Celeste and laid between the leaves of her
prayer-book, they turned their backs on all they would ever be permitted
to know of Lewis Carroll, and the door with the spring lock swung to
behind them.
It had been part of the plan to attend the five-o'clock service in
Christ Church Cathedral; and after spending a half hour or so in
wandering through the cloisters and gaining something of an idea of the
college as a whole, they went early into the cathedral, that they might
also stroll for a while through the beautiful old church whose history
dates as far back as the middle of the eighth century. At five o'clock
promptly the beautiful choral service began, and the sweet music and
the earnest spirit of the service seemed to round out to a fitting close
that always to be remembered Sunday afternoon in Oxford.