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Little Queen of Hearts

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<h2> CHAPTER XXIII.—FOR LOVE OF MARIE-CELESTE. </h2> <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/9228.jpg" alt="9228 " width-obs="100%" /> <ANTIMG src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </div> 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. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/0233.jpg" alt="0233 " width-obs="100%" /> </div> <h5> <ANTIMG src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </h5> “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, <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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