[Illustration: 9215]
For some reason or other the spirits of our driving party seemed
steadily rising. It was simply impossible to put anybody out of humor,
no matter what happened. Everything was lovely and just as it should be,
even to the pelting showers that came down with such swift suddenness
as to almost soak them through before they could get under cover of
waterproofs and umbrellas, and then a moment after left them stranded in
brilliant sunshine, fairly steaming within the rubber coats which, with
much difficulty, had but just been adjusted. Indeed, every day seemed
more full of enjoyment than the one that preceded it and to call for
more enthusiasm. If any one had asked Mr. Harris, for instance, how he
accounted for this, he would probably have laughed good-naturedly at the
question, and answered: “Why, easily enough! How could it be otherwise
with this glorious weather, this beautiful country, and our jolly little
party!” But the real secret of what made the party so jolly was, in
fact, quite beyond Mr. Harris's ability to divine. The real secret lay
with Marie-Celeste and Dorothy in the good news that had been committed
to their keeping; and, strange to say, it seemed to mean as much to
Dorothy, who was no relation of Theodore's, as to Marie-Celeste, who
was. As a result, they were both brimming over with fun and merriment;
and as there is, fortunately, nothing in the world more contagious than
good spirits, the other members of the party were equally merry without
in the least knowing why. Even Mr. Farwell, who had simply been invited
to fill up and because he was a friend of Mr. Harris's, fell under the
spell, and bloomed out in a most surprising and delightful manner, and
by the time the first week was over felt as though he had known them
all all his life, and, indeed, very much regretted that such was not in
truth the case.
From the Waterhead Hotel, at Coniston, the plan had been laid to retrace
their way a few miles over the same road by which they had come from
Windermere, make a stop for two or three hours at the Rothay Hotel,
and then drive on to Keswick that same afternoon. But just as they were
rolling into Grasmere, the off-leader, with the total depravity peculiar
to animal nature, struck the only stone visible within a hundred yards
on that perfect roadway, laming himself instantly and in most pronounced
fashion. This chanced to be the first mishap; but then could you really
call an accident a mishap that simply necessitated a three-days' stay
in the beautiful Wordsworth district? Our sunshiny little party, at any
rate, chose not so to regard it, and scoured the whole lovely region on
foot, reading Wordsworth's poetry in their halts by the roadside, and
growing familiar with every foot of the lanes he so dearly loved. Not
content with their morning spent in the Grasmere Church, and beside
his grave in the little churchyard without, they even made their way to
Wordsworth's old home--beautiful Rydal Mount--hoping, on the strength
of a card of introduction to the gentleman residing there, to possibly
be allowed to see the house. The gentleman, however, when they presented
themselves at his door, politely bowed them out instead of in, and they
were fain to content themselves with the lesser privilege of inspecting
the prettily terraced garden.
When, after the three days' rest, the off-leader had been coaxed into
proper driving condition, they started off once more, but rather late in
the afternoon, planning to take things in quite leisurely fashion, out
of regard for the same off-leader, and depending upon the wonderful
English twilight to bring them into Keswick before ten o'clock. It
happened to be a local holiday in Cumberland, and as a result here and
there they encountered a solitary specimen of humanity prone upon his
back or his face, just as it chanced, by the roadside, or, not quite
so badly off as that, reeling along to wherever home might be in that
apparently houseless region. At six o'clock, on one of the highest
points on the road that leads to Keswick, they stopped at the Nag's
Head, a typical roadside inn, for supper, the sounds of revelry in whose
tap-room at once accounted for the sorry customers they had met upon
the road before they reached it. It was exceedingly interesting to the
American contingent of the party to gain a little insight into the life
of the English “navvies;” and they passed the little tap-room, reeking
with smoke and smelling of pipes and beer mugs, rather more often than
circumstances would warrant, for the sake of looking in on the jolly
fellows, and catching a sentence or so of their almost unintelligible
dialect. A truce to all this, however, for fear you should imagine, and
with reason, that even at this late stage I am going to fare so wide
of my province of story-teller as to conduct you in guide-book fashion
through the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. But, nevertheless,
up to this same Nag's Head Inn we simply had to come, because some one
else, in whom we have an interest, is coming there too as fast as a good
road-horse can carry him. It seems that opposite the Nag's Head Inn the
Church of England has built a tiny edifice, and as though to apologize
for the apparent unreasonableness of building any church there
whatsoever, they have made a most miniature affair of it. A placard
suspended within proclaims the fact that it is the smallest church in
all England, and beneath it a contribution-box, of dimensions out of
all proportion to the surroundings, invites spare shillings for the
maintenance of the lonely little parish.
The peculiar isolation of the place appeals to the average tourist in
most pathetic fashion, and no sooner have our friends of the driving
party crowded within the diminutive door than Mr. Harris, hat in hand,
commences to take up a collection, with a view to making a radical
addition to the contents of the roomy contribution-box. Just as he
is concluding the exercise of this truly churchly function, and
Marie-Celeste is dropping her very last sixpence into the depths of the
appealing hat, the little doorway is suddenly darkened---as it has
need to be when any one comes through it--and in the next second Ted is
standing in their midst. The collection goes sliding on to the floor,
to be re-collected at leisure, and everybody, with the exception of Mr.
Farwell, is trying to seize Ted's hand at once. Precedence, however, is
given to the claims of Marie-Celeste, and the upturned face is greeted
with the most prodigious kiss.
“I thought we should happen to meet you somewhere on this trip,”
said Mr. Harris, when things had subsided enough for an attempt at
conversation, groping the while on all-fours, and with Harold's help,
for the fugitive shillings on the floor.
“Well, you can hardly call it happening to meet, when I've been riding
since early this morning to catch you. I expected to overtake you at
Grasmere, but found you were well on your way to Keswick by the time I
reached it.”
“Well, where did you come from, anyhow, old fellow?” asked Harold,
pleased beyond measure that Ted had seen fit to follow them up in this
fashion. He could not imagine whatever had suddenly brought it about,
after all the neglect of the summer; but that did not in the least
diminish his delight.
“I came from home, Harold,” Ted replied; “I went back there two weeks
ago, but it was so lonely I couldn't stand it, and so when I found out
through the Allyns about where you were, I came posthaste after you.
Besides, you know, when I discovered that my brake had been walked off
with in a rather cool fashion, I concluded I had some rights in the
case, and came to look after them. I see it's been terribly abused,”
glancing in the direction of the brake, which, minus the horses, stood
in front of the inn across the narrow road; “it was as good as new when
you started.”
But these last remarks, so like the old Ted, but for the fact that
he was not in the least in earnest, were hardly listened to at all by
Harold. He was thinking his own glad thoughts. Five weeks yet till the
Harrises would sail for home! Ted would have a chance to redeem himself
in that time and make up for all his coldness and neglect; and the joy
of it all was that it looked as though he was going to try to do it.
“Half crown, please, for being permitted to join the party,” said Mr.
Harris, presenting the hat to Ted, after making sure that none of the
coins were still missing; and Ted, though wholly bent on practising
close economy, felt the circumstances justified the outlay, and did as
he was bid.
There was only one person to whom Ted's coming was not a source of
unalloyed pleasure. The addition of a seventh member to the party made
it necessary that some one should occupy the vacant back seat on the
brake between the grooms, and Mr. Farwell was gentleman enough to insist
upon being allowed to take his regular turn in the matter. He would not
have minded this much, however, only that, being endowed with average
qualities of discernment, he soon realized he had been obliged to take
a back seat in more senses than one. Dorothy continued to be most polite
and friendly, but that Ted filled the role of an old and privileged
friend was at once evident on the face of things, and Mr. Farwell
endeavored to accept the situation with the best grace possible, and
succeeded, be it said to his credit, remarkably well.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris were soon taken into Ted's confidence--the very
next day, in fact, as they were sitting in the garden of the hotel
at Keswick--and listened as raptly to his narration of all that had
happened these last few weeks as the little circle outside the cottage
door had listened to Marie-Celeste. Ted, however, made no excuses for
himself, whereas Marie-Celeste's account was full of them; and so one
narration was naturally far less plausible than the other. The one fact
that seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Harris to defy credulity was that Ted should
have fallen into the hands of the Hartleys, for in what other little
cottage in all England could such a transformation have been wrought?
Where else could he have been brought into such close touch with all
the old home interests as he had been there, first through Chris and
afterward through Donald and Marie-Celeste, and where else could he have
come to see so clearly that he had been wilfully trampling upon all that
is truest and best in life? “Fritz,” said Mrs. Harris that evening,
as in company with Marie-Celeste they were strolling home from an hour
spent in the little churchyard where the great poet Southey is buried,
“I think it is beautiful to realize what a grand part Providence plays
in the world.”
“Providence!” said Marie-Celeste thoughtfully; “really, I do not know
just what people mean by Providence.”
“The word is from the Latin,” said her father, who, with most college
men, liked to bring his knowledge of derivations to the front now and
then, “and the dictionary, I think, would tell you that it means God's
thoughtful care for everything created.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Harris, “only it seems to me that people are often
in too much of a hurry to make use of the word, for you can't he certain
until you are able to look hack upon a thing whether it was surely of
God's ordering or man's short-sighted scheming. Still I am inclined to
believe, even at this stage of the proceeding, that our coming over
here this summer has indeed been a beautiful providence and a few weeks
later, for good and sufficient reasons, there was not a shadow of doubt
on that score left in the mind of any one.”