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 ............