Never in all this world was there a happier little host than Harold Harris when he found how kindly his guests from across the water were taking to the life at Windsor; but who would not have taken kindly to it, I should like to know? The Queen herself, in her great castle on the hill, could not have planned more for the comfort of her guests than did Harold in his little castle beneath it; and, indeed, this name of Little Castle had somehow attached itself to the pretty stone house, with its round tower and moat-shaped terrace.
It had been an idle bachelor’s fancy to build after this unique fashion some ten years before; but when Harold’s mother had come seeking a home in Windsor, he was already tired of it, and she found the house was “To be let,” provided desirable tenants could be found; and “desirable” the little widow proved in the eyes of the discriminating agent. “None more so,” he thought complacently when he called for the first quarter’s rent, and saw what a gem of a place she had made it. All the contents of the house in London, which after her husband’s death had seemed too sad a place to live in, had been brought into the ivy-covered little castle, and under her transforming touch it had soon become as cheery and cosey as possible. But it was not enough for Harold that he was able to invite his friends into such an attractive home. A room in the top story, with a fine north light, was fitted up as a studio for Uncle Fritz, who, though a business man by circumstance, was an artist through and through. For Aunt Lou an up-stairs sitting-room was converted into a little study; for although Aunt Lou herself was rather loath to confess it, it was nevertheless somewhat generally known that she was very fond of writing stories for children. For Marie-Celeste there seemed nothing in particular that could be done, save to make her own little room as inviting as could be. To accomplish this, Harold conferred with a friend of Ted’s, Canon Allyn’s daughter. Miss Allyn, who had been a great favorite of Harold’s mother, was only too glad to have him turn to her, and entered into all the preparations with an enthusiasm that was very delightful. She suggested, among other things, a valance and curtains for the little brass bedstead, already purchased, and then went herself and selected a soft, white material and superintended their making. At her suggestion, too, the couch and chairs were upholstered with a pretty flower-patterned cretonne, and some lovely white-framed etchings were hung upon the tinted walls. Then, by grace of his own idea of fitness, Harold had added to the other furnishings a Dresden china toilet-set, and in this he was perhaps far wiser than he knew, for is there anything so well calculated to captivate at sight the heart of a dainty little maiden as the mysterious round-topped boxes that compose the dainty outfit of the ideal dressing-table? Then, to crown it all, a pair of ponies and a basket-phaeton had been purchased for the exclusive use of the guests that were to be. Of course, all this meant money; but with the exception of the previous summer, when Theodore’s guests had cost him such a pretty penny, Harold had conscientiously lived a good wav inside his income, so that there was a reserve fund to draw on, on demand. As I said, then, who would not have taken kindly to the life at Windsor under such conditions, and have lost no time in stowing themselves happily away in the special niche prepared for them? So Mr. Harris painted as for dear life in all weathers, indoors or out, as the fancy struck him, and Mrs. Harris turned her leisure to account for a bit of writing now and then, and in between times they drove hither and thither in the basket-phaeton, and, one by one, took in all the sights of old and delightful Windsor. And Marie-Celeste did likewise, as far as the driving and sight-seeing were concerned; but having no greater responsibility than the arrangement of the Dresden boxes on the little dressing-table, wandered about at her own sweet will, in the hours while Harold was at school and when every one else was busy. And the place to which she wandered most often was to St. George’s Chapel, which at the time of her talk with Donald she had not yet had the good fortune to visit. But with Marie-Celeste, as with some of the rest of us, to know St. George’s was to love it, and she had soon gained a standing permission to go there whenever she liked; and that was very often—so often, in fact, that any one who saw her one lovely May morning tripping down the walk from the Little Castle, as though bent upon some special errand, could easily have guessed her destination. It was a matter of five minutes to reach the corner of High Street, and of three minutes more to climb Castle Hill; then a smile to the guard who happened to be on duty at the gate, and she was within the castle walls. And once there she stopped to take it all in, for it had never seemed so beautiful before; and then in a moment she knew what new touch had been added to the scene. The sun had shone as brilliantly, and the gray round tower, with its grass-grown terraces, had stood out as clearly against the blue of the English sky, but never before—for Marie-Celeste, that is—had those terraces been abloom with great masses of lilacs. Two days had come and gone since her last visit, and the showers and sunshine intervening had flashed the myriad tiny buds of every cluster into full and transcendent bloom. No wonder the child held her breath, spellbound from sheer delight, and no wonder, too, that the spell lost its power to hold her the moment she spied a darling, new little friend of hers standing in the chapel doorway. “And—and now good-morning,” rang out a cheery little voice as she had hastened up the path.
“Good-morning, Albert,” answered Marie-Celeste, smiling at the expected, “and now,” with which, by way of getting the best of a tendency to stutter, Albert was accustomed to preface many of his remarks; “1 thought 1 should find you here,” she added; “and have you seen the lilacs, Albert?”
“Yes; and our bushes are out too,” with an emphatic little nod of the head, as much as to say, that the Queen’s lilacs were not specially privileged in that direction.
“Is your sister going to play this morning?” asked Marie-Celeste, with an eagerness on her face that gave place to intense satisfaction as Albert answered, “Yes; she’s comin’ in a little while;” since to have Miss Allyn at the organ during these visits of hers to the chapel was just the most delightful thing that could possibly happen for Marie-Celeste. “And now let’s have a little chat,” said Albert, seating himself on the step, and making room for Marie-Celeste beside him.
“And what shall we talk about?”
“The weather;” for with Albert this topic was always of paramount importance. “And first, I’ll see what kind of a day we are going to have;” and suiting the action to the word, he stepped off a little distance to take an observation. He was always the embodiment of dainty freshness, this little four-year-old Albert, and thanks to his mother’s preference, boyish percale dresses still kept the Lilliputian trousers of the period at bay. He was a cunning little object as he strode a few feet down the path, his hat on the back of his golden curls, a soft, red silk sash knotted soldier-like at his side, and his hands folded behind him, in evident and precise imitation of some older observer of the elements. His observations, however, were so exceedingly cursory and so impartially comprehensive, including the path at his feet every whit as carefully as the sky above him, that Marie-Celeste had difficulty in preserving proper decorum.
0070
“We are going to have a fine day,” Albert asserted, resuming his seat on the steps, and with the authority of one who knows; and the matter of the weather being thus satisfactorily disposed of, Marie-Celeste made so bold as to introduce another subject; and as it chanced to meet with Albert’s approval, they chatted merrily together for ever so long. Meantime, a party of tourists, with Marshall’s familiar pink guide-hook open in the hands of one of them, had been surveying the chapel at a distance, and now, after a word or two with the children on the doorstep, made their way within.
“Is Mr. Brooke in the chapel, Albeit?” asked Marie-Celeste.
“Yes,” sighed Albert; for he knew that his answer meant an end to their chat; for whenever during these visits of hers a party of tourists were so fortunate as to secure the services of the verier, Mr. Brooke, Marie-Celeste invariably followed in their train, listening to every word as it fell from the good old man’s lips. She already knew many of the monument inscriptions by heart, but that made no difference; for her the old chapel possessed a never-ending fascination, and she rarely crossed the threshold of the choir—which was a beautiful chapel in itself—without an actual thrill of pleasure. So, as Albert had expected, this morning proved no exception, and he was unceremoniously left to communion with his own thoughts upon the doorstep; but it did not prove a long separation. In their tour of the chapel the travellers from across the water had but reached the wonderful cenotaph of the Princess Charlotte, when a sweet single chord from the great organ broke upon the air, as though the player simply wanted to make sure that the instrument would respond when the time came. But in that single chord lay a summons for Marie-Celeste and for Albert; at least, they chose so to regard it, and meeting at the foot of the organ-loft stairway, they climbed it hand-in-hand.
“So here you are!” said a very sweet-looking young lady, turning to greet the children from her seat on the organ-bench. “Seems to me I would have waited for more of an invitation than that, just that one chord.”
“You needn’t mind ‘bout inwiting us ever, Dorothy,” said Albert, climbing on to a cushioned bench at his sister’s side, “‘cause we’d tome anyhow, wouldn’t we, Marie-Celeste?”
“Yes, Albert, I think we would; but you really don’t mind having us, do you, Miss Allyn?”
“No, I really don’t,” in imitation of Marie-Celeste’s frequent use of the word. “In fact, I rather like to have two such every-day little specimens near me here in this chapel, where so many great people lie buried; and now I shall not say another word, because I want to have a good practice.”
“But you’ll—” and then Marie-Celeste thought perhaps she had better not ask it.
“Stop in time for your favorites,” laughed Miss Allyn, finishing the sentence. “Yes, of course I will. Perhaps you’d like them now, you and Albert?”
“No, no, Dorothy,” said Albert firmly; “we want to think they are tomin’, and not dat dey’re over.” And as Marie-Celeste was evidently of the same mind, that settled the matter. Then for the first time the tone of the organ rang out full and strong; and the visitors in the chapel below looked up with rapt faces to the gallery, as though for them, as for Marie-Celeste, the sweet music seemed to lend the last perfecting touch to the holy enchantment of the place. For over an hour, with scarce an interruption, Miss Allyn played on and on, and Marie-Celeste never stirred from the choirmaster’s chair, in which she sat absorbed and entranced. Albert, it must be confessed, had made more than one mysterious sortie down the gallery stairs, as though bent on an important errand which had just occurred to him; but in each case he brought up in rather aimless fashion in some remote corner of the chapel; so it was easy to comprehend that the only real purpose in view was to give his restless little four-year-old self the benefit of a change. He was absent on the third of these little excursions of his, and was surreptitiously amusing his audacious little self by seeing how it seemed to sit in the Oueen’s own stall, when hark!—yes, that was going to be “The Roseate Hues,” and with a bound that came near bringing the royal draperies with him he was out of the stall in a trice and fairly scrambling up the organ stairs.
“Bedi............