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Little Queen of Hearts

<h2> CHAPTER XVIII.—RATHER A BOOKISH CHAPTER. </h2> <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/9188.jpg" alt="9188 " width-obs="100%" /> <ANTIMG src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </div> 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 little room where he made the pictures come out, and they would be permitted to have a look at the dripping glass plate, from which they could seldom make head nor tail, held up against the dark-room's lantern for inspection. But, all the same, their faith in the result was supreme; for what could a wizard not do who could weave fairy-tales so wonderfully as not to have them seem like fairy-tales at all. And so this portfolio, extended to its uttermost, was literally stuffed with pictures; and what did they discover, to their surprised delight, lying right on the top of the pile, but three or four unmistakable photographs of Harry and Dorothy Allyn, which had evidently been placed there by design. Dorothy was pleased at this little attention, and partly forgave Mr. Carroll his antipathy to renewing old friendships. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/0192.jpg" alt="0192 " width-obs="100%" /> </div> <h5> <ANTIMG src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </h5> The pictures themselves were as funny as could be, and the Harry Allyn of those days was wonderfully like the Albert Allyn of these; so that a council was held on the spot, and the resolution carried that they would leave a little note on Mr. Carroll's table, humbly begging for one of the pictures, that they might have the pleasure of showing them to interested parties at Windsor. The inspection of the photographs once over, the little party settled themselves to “taking the little sitting-room in,” as they said, and there was little, you may be sure, that escaped them. The curious old fire-irons were noted, the subjects of the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, and a remarkable paper-knife and quaint old inkstand upon the table. Marie-Celeste, to whom this visit meant more than to Harold and Dorothy, even made so bold as to glance through an intervening portière to the bachelor bedroom beyond; and yet you must know that there was not a vestige of prying curiosity in this investigating mood of hers. The next thing, and sometimes a better thing than knowing your favorite author, is to know how and where he lives; and it was a matter of supreme delight to Marie-Celeste that henceforth when she should open Lewis Carroll's books she should be able to picture him working away here in his study, and just as he really looked, too, for by chance or accidents full-length photograph stood on the mantel, which Dorothy, from her visita few years before, was able to pronounce an excellent likeness, and very characteristic. “I would like to be able to say I had sat exactly where 'Alice' was written,” said Marie-Celeste, slipping into the chair at the writing-table. “Do you think I could honestly?” “Well, both table and chair look old enough,” Dorothy considerately replied; “but I don't believe books like those are written much in regular places at all. It seems as though 'Alice' must at least have been made up out on the river, even if there were not three little pairs of childish hands to steer and guide the boat, as the verses at the beginning would have us believe.” “Oh, but I do believe there were, Miss Dorothy!” said Marie-Celeste warmly; “don't you remember it says, ”' All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide, For both our oars with little skill By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide.'” And then in another verse in just so many words, 'Thus grew the tale of Wonderland.' Oh, yes, I choose to believe everything in those two books.” “Well, I don't blame you,” laughed Dorothy, “for everything is told as a matter of course, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for a rabbit to carry white gloves, and for little girls to seek advice of caterpillars.” “Well, the parts I used to like best were the verses;” for Harold, after the manner of the genus who pride themselves on early outgrowing many of the best things of life, relegated the books to the days of his early childhood; “the stories themselves always seemed more meant for girls than for boys.” “Now, excuse me, Harold,” said Marie-Celeste, bristling up a little, “but I don't see why you boys are so afraid of peeping into what you call a girl's book. Of course there are books that tell only about girls that you wouldn't like. To tell the truth, I don't care much for them myself; but if a book ever happens to have a kind of girlish name to it, that settles it at once. Now, suppose it were possible for any one to write a story about me; I presume they would have to give a sort of girl's name to the story; but would that mean that it was all about girls? Well, I guess not;” and Marie-Celeste laughed as she realized how wide such an estimate would fall of the mark. “Chris would be in it, of course, and you and Donald and—” and Marie-Celeste was going to say Ted, but checked herself in time to make an exchange for Mr. Belden—“and Albert. Why, gracious, Harold, come to think of it, I haven't a girl friend this summer—only Miss Dorothy here, if she will excuse me.” “And it's a pity about me, isn't it, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy slyly, “for the author might feel that as I am your friend he ought to put mein somewhere, and that would make it a little more about girls, you see, and probably spoil the story.” “Oh, Miss Dorothy, you know what I mean; it isn't that I don't like girls, it's only that a book like 'Alice' ought to have just as much interest for boys as girls;” for all Marie-Celeste had in mind was the defence of the imputation that Lewis Carroll's books were “just girls' books.” “If all the remarkable things in those two stories,” she continued, “had happened to a 'Jack' instead of an 'Alice,' I should have loved it just as much, I am sure.” “Oh, well, you needn't be quite so hard on me,” Harold replied, improving the first opportunity to put in a word, and very much amused at Marie-Celeste's little tirade. “I fancy, on the whole, you don't know much more about 'Alice's' adventures than I do.” This last remark Marie-Celeste chose to regard as a challenge, and then followed such a rehearsal of Alice's varied experiences as would have done Lewis Carroll's heart good to hear. Both eager to show how much they remembered, the moment either paused for the fraction of a second, the other would take it up, and so the whole ground was pretty well gone over. Harold's principal achievement lay in “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” and Marie-Celeste's in the recitation of “Jabberwocky” from “Through the Looking-Glass;” for not only was she able to slip its almost unpronounceable words quite easily from her tongue, but she remembered the explanation of them given by Humpty Dumpty, when Alice appeals to him a little later on in the story, and he modestly informs her that he can explain all the poems that ever were invented, “and a good many beside that haven't been invented just yet.” “It's getting near four o'clock,” said Dorothy, feeling at last that she must interrupt the flow of conversation, no matter how interesting; “let us write the note asking for the picture, and then see something of the rest of the college.” So the note was written and left conspicuously upon the writing-table; and then with one long farewell glance about them, and a flower stolen from a vase by Marie-Celeste and laid between the leaves of her prayer-book, they turned their backs on all they would ever be permitted to know of Lewis Carroll, and the door with the spring lock swung to behind them. It had been part of the plan to attend the five-o'clock service in Christ Church Cathedral; and after spending a half hour or so in wandering through the cloisters and gaining something of an idea of the college as a whole, they went early into the cathedral, that they might also stroll for a while through the beautiful old church whose history dates as far back as the middle of the eighth century. At five o'clock promptly the beautiful choral service began, and the sweet music and the earnest spirit of the service seemed to round out to a fitting close that always to be remembered Sunday afternoon in Oxford. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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