It is one thing to extend an invitation. It is quite another to have it accepted. Harold realized this with a sigh as he woke the next morning. Still, hope was in the wind, where it had not been for a long time, and, what was more, the first suggestion of spring was in it too, and every one knows what a tonic that is; so the sigh, on the whole, did not have much of a show, and Harold set off for school with a heart that he hardly knew for lightness.
Besides, Ted had taken quite civil leave of him before going back to Oxford, and had said he fancied would be down again next Sunday, and that he would be on hand, like as not, if Uncle Fritz decided to come over—all of which, for any one who knew Ted as Harold knew him, was graciousness itself, and made Harold wish he had not waited so long before taking matters into his own hands. And in addition to all this, the morning was fine enough to brace anybody up, no matter what their troubles. The Eton boys in their tall hats (atoning, as it were, for the extreme briefness of their jackets) and wide-rolling linen collars were skurrying through the streets as though they had the right of way, as indeed they have in dear old royal Windsor; and here and there the flowing gown of a colleger spread itself to the April wind and floated out behind, to all appearances as glad as any peacock to show what it could do in that direction. Indeed, who knows of a more inspiriting sight anywhere than Eton College on an April morning? The quaint old buildings seem to bask in the broad spring sunshine; the trees that dot the grass-bare turf where the Upper School fronts the street are already casting tiny leaf-shadows, and on the other side, where the garden slopes down to the Thames, many a little branch and bush begins to glow with color. Even the old bronze statue of Henry VI. in the outer quadrangle, with all its panoply of robes of state and globe and sceptre, appears to look a little more chipper than ever and a trifle more conscious of the distinction of being the “munificent founder” of so glorious an institution. No wonder the boys love the old place, and even the dingy recitation rooms, whose quaint, high desks and slippery benches are notched with the penknives of many a boy, whose name, as a man, has come to be known through the length and breadth of England. To Harold it was a matter of no small pride, I assure you, that his particular seat on the form during that spring term was the same that had once been Gladstone’s—“the prettiest little boy,” by the way, in the mind of his partial teacher, that ever went up to Eton. But all this, as you can plainly see, has nothing whatever to do with the title of this chapter, so it “behooves us,” as the preachers used to say, to turn our back on Harold and the charms of the renowned old college, and our faces toward the ocean and a far-off land—far off, that is, as far as Windsor and the English are concerned, but very near and dear to the hearts of some of the rest of us. Of course it is the letter that is turning our thoughts that way at this particular moment. It is tied firmly in a packet within a great leather bag, and, having been just in time to catch the mail-train, is being spirited down to Queenstown, where one of the great White Star steamers has been waiting full four long hours, so important are these reams upon reams of letters we and our English cousins keep sending one to the other across the water. Wind and tide favor the huge, swift ship, and early in the morning, the sixth day out, Fire Island light is sighted. It is a cloudless morning, the white sands of the South-shore beaches shine like silver in the sunlight, and the fresh sea breeze that is stirring holds its own the whole length of Long Island, and blows its purifying way into every street and alley of the vast city that lies at its farther end. A most uninteresting city, this city of Brooklyn, some people affirm; even those of us who love it best cannot claim that it is great in anything but “bigness” but there are homes there we will match against homes the world over, not for show or for luxury, but for pure and transcendent comfort. It is only a corner of the wide-spreading city of which we are speaking, and a little corner at that, but the charm of it lies in the fact that many of the streets open right to the harbor, and that many of the houses, as well, command the same glorious view. To be sure, one has need to overlook, in quite too literal fashion, the warehouses that front the water below the bluff, and here and there an unsightly elevator, but why let the eye rest on these, with the dancing blue water beneath you, and the Jersey hills beyond, and beyond that again, like as not, a glorious sunset. To be sure, the houses that line these streets stand most of them shoulder to shoulder, in barbarous, city-like fashion, and with far too much sameness in their general make-up and plan. But that is neither here nor there; we simply are claiming—we who love it—that it is a region of ideal homes. And more than this, there is a rare kindliness of spirit and an open-handed hospitality prevalent among the people. They are friends and neighbors in the best sense of the word; too high-minded and preoccupied to be gossipy or prying, they are interested in each other’s affairs with the interest that means a sharing of each other’s joys and sorrows.
So much for the corner—let who will gainsay it—and more for a little maid who lives there, and who is none other, as you may have imagined, than Marie-Celeste, the little Queen-Pin of this story. And Marie-Celeste she is always. For some reason or other neither she nor the friend of her mother for whom she is called is ever known by any shorter title. Indeed, the two names have even become to be written with a hyphen, and seemingly to belong to each other, and to be quite as inseparable as the three syllables of Dorothy or the four of Dorothea. At the time of our introduction to the little maid in question she has donned the prettiest of white embroidered dresses and a broad white sash (which she first tied in a great bow in front and then pulled round to where it belongs in the back), and has come down to the front steps to watch for somebody. She knows almost to a minute how long she will have to wait, for she heard the signal—three little, short, sharp whistles—about five minutes ago. She decides it is worth while to make herself comfortable, and also worth while, looking askance at the doubtful doormat, to bring a well-swept rug from within. Then she seats herself, and, clasping two fair little hands round one knee, just waits, letting eyes rove where they will and thoughts follow. That is a very pretty cage in the window across the way, but she feels sorry for the bird. People oughtn’t to leave a canary hanging full in the sunshine on a warm day like this; and then she meditates awhile on the advantages of living on the side of the street that is shady in the afternoon. And now two or three gentlemen are coming by from the ferry, all of whom she knows by sight, for the short terrace where she lives is by no means a general thoroughfare, and just behind them is Mr. Eversley, May Eversley’s father. She wishes he would look up, for she has a bow ready for him; but he doesn’t, and she must needs defer her social proclivities yet a little while longer. And here comes a great yellow delivery wagon, with horses fine enough for a carriage and two men in livery. What a deafening noise it makes on the Belgian pavement! There! for a comfort it is going to stop for a minute at the next house. My! what a lot of bundles! And now the street is quite empty again, not a person on either side of the one, short block; but the whistle that has been ringing out more and more clearly at quite regular, three-minute intervals sounds very near indeed, and in another second a gray-suited individual, with soldier-like cap to match and a glitter of shining brass buttons, swings round the opposite corner, and makes a bee-line across the street. Our little friend is instantly on her feet, with one hand extended, and a “Good-afternoon, Mr. Hartley.”
“The same to you, Marie-Celeste,” replies the gray-coated newcomer, clasping the little, friendly hand in his.
“And how did it come out?” she asks in the next breath.
“It came out all right,” and Mr. Hartley leaned back and rested both elbows on the rail behind him.
“I knew you would win,” said Marie-Celeste complacently; “I felt perfectly sure of it, Chris.”
“And what is more, Bradford came in second.”
“You don’t mean it!” for Bradford was assistant postman on the route that included the Terrace, and Marie-Celeste was naturally quite overwhelmed at the thought that both their men should have won. The winning in question had occurred at a foot-race the night before, an accomplishment somewhat in the line of the daily training of the average postman, and for which Christopher Hartley in particular had long shown a special aptitude.
0023
“It was quite a big prize, wasn’t it?” questioned Marie-Celeste, really longing to know the exact amount; but Mr. Hartley, not divining that, simply answered, his kind face radiant as a boy’s, “The largest yet, Marie-Celeste—enough to take me home for two months this summer, and pay Bradford, besides, for doing double work while I’m gone. He can manage the route easily; the mails fall off more than half in the summer, you know.”
“Well, isn’t that splendid!” with a world of meaning in her inflection and a face every whit as radiant as Mr. Hartley’s own. “And now won’t you please tell me everything about the race, from the start to the finish,” proud to show that she remembered the terms she had heard him use; and only too glad of the opportunity, Chris proceeded to give a graphic narrative of all the details of the exciting contest. Wide-eyed and interested, Marie-Celeste sat and listened, furtively scanning the street now and then for fear of interruption by some of the children of the neighborhood.
“Have you told any of the others?” she asked eagerly, when the story’s end had been reached, and hoping in her heart of hearts that she was to have the pleasure of imparting news of such paramount importance to the neighborhood.
“Never a one; I dodged a crowd of them round the corner there for the sake of telling you first;” wherefrom it was easy to discover that Mr. Hartley had a somewhat partial regard for his earnest little listener. It was a decidedly partial regard, for that matter, and with reason. Had any other child friend along his route, no matter how friendly, questioned him day after day as to how he was getting on with his training for the race? Had any other among them promised to be on hand at the latest delivery on the afternoon succeeding it, so as to learn just what the issue had been, and at a time when he would be able to stop and tell about it? Would any one else in the world have thought of suggesting that he should give three short little whistles when he reached the Browns’, in Remsen Street, so that she should know just how near he was? Surely no one; and it was just this surpassing interest in every living body, to the utter forgetting of all that concerned herself, that made Marie-Celeste different from other children, that made everybody love her, and that makes it worth while for me to try to tell this story of one summer in her blessed little life.
“Well, I’m just as glad as I can be,” she said joyously when at last Mr. Hartley thought he had better be moving on, and thought at the same time, too, I venture, that it was something to have won that race, if only to have caused such gladness.
“You haven’t any letters for us, have you?” she added, as he turned to go down the step and she caught sight of the leather bag swung across his shoulder.
“Why, yes, I have,” diving into its depths, and angry at himself for his forgetfulness; “it’s an important letter, too, I reckon; it’s from England.”
“Why, so it is!” her eyes fairly dancing with delight and surprise. “It’s from Harold, and we haven’t heard from him in ever so long; but oh, dear, it’s for papa, isn’t it, and he’s out driving.”
“You won’t have very long to wait,” said Chris, smiling at her impatience, “if you’re expecting him home to dinner.”
“But we’re not, that’s the bother of it. He and mamma are going to dine at the Crescent Club afterward, and I shall have to be sound asleep when they come home.” Then she asked after a moment of serious cogitation, “Do you suppose, Chris, that any of the children along your route open their fathers’ letters, when they are sure they’re from their cousins?”
“I can’t say about that,” laughed Chris, as he went down the steps. “You know best; good-night, I’m off now.”
“Good-night, Chris,” rather absent-mindedly, and with eyes and thoughts still intent upon the letter. Would it be such a dreadful thing to open it? It was so hard not to know right away what was in it. She had never seen this English Cousin Harold, but when they had exchanged photographs at Christmas-time he had sent such a beautiful letter that she had come to feel that they were the best of friends. But no, hard as it was, she felt certain it would really be best not to open it; so she would put the letter in her pocket, and when she went to bed she would slide it under her pillow, and then only take little cat-naps until her father and mother should come home, and she could tell them about it, and hear what was in it. But alas! for the little cat-naps; for the lights blinked brightly in the harbor, and the ferry-boats whistled and let off steam in deafening fashion, and the stars came out, and the moon came up, and papa and mamma came home, and chatted gayly besides, with the door wide open into her room, and yet Marie-Celeste never wakened, and Harold’s important letter lay sealed and unread, and as flat as a fluffy head could press it until the light of another morning.