[Illustration: 9228]
Among the letters that Mr. Harris found awaiting him was one from
Chris, telling him that he and Donald were booked for the Majestic,
sailing from Liverpool the first of October. “All right,” said Mr.
Harris to himself; “we go, too, then, if we can,” which was somewhat of a
question, considering the crowded state of autumn ocean travel. But
good fortune still favored our little party, and Mr. Harris's telegram
reached Liverpool just in time to secure state-rooms which, within
the same hour, had been relinquished. So there was only one month
more before them now, and one week of that Mr. and Mrs. Harris and
Marie-Celeste were to spend in London. But the household in the Little
Castle tried to make it a happy month--as happy as they could, that is,
with the cloud of coming separation hanging over them. There was another
cloud, too, that broadened and deepened as the month drew near its
close; Uncle Everett was far from well. Just at first he had entered
into the excursions and driving to which much of the time had been given
over, but latterly he had preferred to stay at home, and now for a week
he had been confined to his room. All the while, however, he was utterly
uncomplaining, seeming to be bent upon making up for all the fretful
moodiness of the selfish old bachelor days up in London. And so the
first of October came round, finding him still in his room, and there
was no help for it but for the Harrises to take leave of him there.
Everybody tried to make the farewells as cheery as possible, and
Mr. Selden promised to visit the States later in the fall if he grew
stronger. “If not,” he said, “I'll see you all when you come over next
spring to Ted's wedding”--for that was another beautiful outcome of the
summer. Ted was to be married at the close of his senior year, and the
Little Castle was again to have a dear little mistress--a mistress as
like to Dorothy as you can possibly imagine.
When, at last, the moment had come for turning their backs on the Little
Castle, two carriages were waiting at the door, for quite a party were
going up to see them off at Liverpool--Ted and Dorothy and Harry Allyn
and Albert, but not Harold. His good-byes were said at the station, as
it was planned they should be; and then dismissing the carriages, he
hurried home as fast as ever he could and straight up to his Uncle
Everett's room.
“Why, Harold, boy, what does this mean?” glancing from his easy-chair
toward the clock on the mantel; “can it be the train has gone without
you?” and Uncle Everett's face could not possibly have looked more
troubled.
“I meant it should,” for Harold had “tied up,” as he called it, to Uncle
Everett with all his heart these last four weeks, and he was not going
to leave him alone and half ill in his room for even twenty-four hours,
if he could help it.
“Oh, Harold, you ought not to have done it!” but Uncle Everett showed
how deeply he was touched by this strong mark of devotion; and Harold,
drawing up a chair, sat silent for a few moments. The house had seemed
so terribly bereft and lonely as he had come up through it, that he
found he had hardly the heart to talk. And yet what had he stayed at
home for if not to be, if possible, of some cheer and comfort? But there
was no use in making an effort to talk about anything but exactly what
was uppermost.
“We're going to miss them a great deal, Uncle Everett,” he said at last,
“and it will be a comfort to get right to work at the studying”--for it
was high time that he and Ted were back at work again, for both had had
to be excused from the opening days ol the term. “All the same, I shall
manage to spare you, Uncle Everett, for your visit to the States when
you get stronger;” for it was understood now that Uncle Everett's
permanent home was to be within the walls of the Little Castle.
Mr. Selden sat thoughtfully a moment looking into the air before him,
and then arriving at a decision, he turned in his chair toward Harold:
“It may not be kind,” he said quietly, “to tell you of it just now, when
your heart is already heavy enough; but, Harold, I shall never be any
stronger. The doctors told me what I had already suspected a month ago
up in London.”
“Never be any stronger!” exclaimed Harold, almost defiantly and almost
overcome with intensity of feeling. “Well, I don't believe it, Uncle
Everett, and they had no right to tell you that; it takes away half a
man's chances.”
“I made them tell me, Harold, I had so many things to arrange, and it is
because they told me that I came post-haste down here to Windsor while
you were all still away, for I felt, whenever it happened, I wanted to
die in the Little Castle, in a place I could call home, if for only
a little while. But, Harold, I cannot bear to sadden you. It may be I
shall live ever so much longer than they think, and get the best of the
doctors. I only wanted you to understand that you wouldn't get rid of me
for any visit.”
Harold tried to smile, but the situation was too serious.
“The reason I've told you now, Harold, is because we may not have such
another good chance for a talk; and the reason I have told you at all
is because there is something more I want to tell you. I have been
wondering naturally what I should do with my money, and I've decided to
leave a fourth of it to you and a fourth to Ted. Yes, I know you don't
need it, but you are my sister's children, and I want to do just this
with it. But the other half, Harold--what do you suppose I am going to
do with that?” his pale face glowing at the thought.
“What, Uncle Everett?” Harold's interest to learn relieving for the
moment the overmastering ache at his heart.
“I am going to build a Home down in Sussex--that's where your mother
and I were born, you know--and a lady up in London--a lady, mind you,
Harold, but who has lost husband and children and everything else in the
world, is going to take care of it for me. Then as soon as it is ready
all the institutions for children in London are to be told about it, and
whenever a little girl comes along who seems to be too fine, in the best
sense of the word, for the life of the ordinary institution, down she is
to go to Cranford, to be cared for in the Home; and it is to be a home,
Harold, prettily furnished, with rooms for ten children, and everything
as dainty as can be. You see, you can only keep it home-like if you
limit it to rather a small number. And then when it comes to be well
known with its family of dear little daughters, I hope that, once in a
while, people who have had little children and lost them, and people who
have never had them at all, and now and then a maiden lady, or even
an old bachelor, will come down there and carry off one or more of the
little girls, to bring them up as their own in their own homes, and so
room will be made for others.”
“Uncle Everett, that's the most beautiful”--
“Wait a moment, Harold, for it isn't all told yet. In the living-room
of the Home I am going to have a beautiful open fireplace (for of course
there won't be any parlor)--the most beautiful that can be made--and
right above the tiles and under the ledge of the mantel I am going to
have the legend, in gold letters, that will shine even in the twilight,
'For love of Marie-Celeste” and then Mr. Selden paused to see how the
idea seemed to strike him.
“Excuse me for a moment, Uncle Everett,” for when boys' hearts grow too
full, they prefer to go off by themselves, and it is not a bad plan,
by the way. “I was a goose,” he said, coming back in a few moments, and
putting his arm lovingly along the back of Uncle Everett's chair;
“but, you see, it was one thing coming right on the top of another so,”
knowing that Uncle Everett understood. “Isn't there more to tell now?”
“No, only this, Harold, and that is, that the orders are all given, and
that whether I live or die, the Home will be ready by next autumn;” and
who would have imagined, to look at the light in the two faces, that
they were really standing face to face with the grave, mysterious
thought of death.
The Majestic is lying, with all steam up, out in the Mersey. Chris is
leaning over the ship's side, and Donald, again in sailor rig, is close
beside him; for Ted had dispensed with Donald's services when he decided
to follow up the driving party, and he had at once hurried back to
Nuneham to help Chris, who was trying to get everything into shape for
the old people before leaving. The tender, with its second and last
load of passengers, is bearing down on the steamer, and now they
can distinguish the Harrises and Albert--of whom Chris has heard so
much--mounted on Theodore's shoulder. Marie-Celeste holds in her two
hands a generous bouquet, which was handed to her just as she stepped
aboard of the tender. Its roses are bound together with a little blue
garter, which she was quick to recognize, and she knows very well she
has need to thank Uncle Selden for this priceless souvenir of that happy
Knight-of-the-Garter party.
Foremost among the number to leave the tender is a man in livery, which
some of the passengers have at once identified as none other than that
worn by the servants of the Oueen.
“Whom do you want, may I ask?” questions Donald politely, since the man,
once aboard, seems hesitating which way to turn. Inclined at first to
resent the interference, the man stares at Donald a moment, and then,
possibly conciliated by the semi-official aspect of his sailor costume,
condescends to reply:
“I have these,” motioning toward the articles in his hands, “for one of
the passengers--Miss Marie-Celeste Harris.”
“Here she is, then,” answers Donald, for the Harrises have that moment
come aboard.
[Illustration: 0233]
“Are you Miss Marie-Celeste Harris?” asks the man, taken aback by the
suddenness of her advent on the scene.
“Yes, I am,” Marie-Celeste replies in a voice all but inaudible with
surprise.
“Then the Queen's compliments, miss, and a _bon voyage!_” and
grandiloquently delivering himself of this little speech, he presses two
packages into her hands and retreats to the tender before she has at all
had time to take it in. Marie-Celeste stands a moment, the observed of
all observers, and especially of those who have overheard the message.
Then our little party, moving off a short distance by themselves, crowd
close about her in breathless excitement while the papers are removed
from a glorious bunch of orchids. There is a card attached that reads,
For the Little Queen of Hearts,
FROM
Madame La Grande Reine.
The other package proves to be a tiny velvet box, containing a curious,
quaint necklace, and this bears the inscription on one of its ends of
faded ribbon,
For the Little Queen of Hearts,
FROM
Madame La Petite Reine.
[Illustration: 0234]