Everybody's Lonesome: A True Fairy Story

by Clara E. Laughlin

One particularly charming experience came to Mary Alice through the Captain's appreciation of her eagerness. Godmother had taught her to love the stars. As well as they could, in New York where, to most people, only scraps of sky are visible at a time, they had been wont to watch with keen interest for the nightly appearance of stars they could see from their windows or from the streets as they went to and fro. And when they got aboard ship and had the whole sky to look at, they revelled in their night hours on the deck, and in picking out the constellations and their "bright, particular stars." This led the Captain to tell Mary Alice something of the stars as the sailors' friends; and she had one of the most memorable evenings of her life when he explained to her something of the science of navigation and made her see how their great greyhound of the ocean, just like the first frail barks of the Tyrians, picked its way across trackless wastes of sea by the infallible guidance of "the friendly stars." All this particularly interested Mary Alice because of Some One who lived much in the open and spent many and many a night on the broad deserts, looking up at the stars.

They landed at Naples, and lingered a fortnight in that lovely vicinity; then, up to Rome, to Florence and Venice, to Milan and the Italian Lakes, through Switzerland into France, and so to Paris. Godmother had once spent a winter at Capri; she had spent several winters in Florence. She knew Venice well. She had hosts of dear, familiar things to show Mary Alice in each place.

At last they came to Paris. Godmother lamented that it was in July they came; but Mary Alice, who had no recollections of Paris in April and May, found nothing to lament. They stayed more than a month—and made a number of the enchanting little journeys which can be made out of Paris forever and ever without repeating, it seems.

Then, with a trunk in which were two "really, truly" Paris dresses—very, very modest ones, to be sure, but unmistakably touched with Parisian chic—and a mind in which were hundreds of wonderful Paris memories, Mary Alice crossed to England. They went at once to London where, it seemed to Mary Alice, she must stay forever, to be satisfied. Godmother had hosts of charming friends in London, even beyond what she had in Italy and France; but for the first fortnight she gave up her time entirely to Mary Alice's sightseeing. By and by her friends began to find out she was there and to clamour insistently for her. And as the exodus from town was as complete as it ever gets, most of the invitations were from the country. So that Mary Alice began to see something of that English country-house life she had read so much about, and to meet personages whose names filled her with awe—until she remembered the Secret. And thus she came to the Great Event of her life.

Godmother had what Mary Alice called "a duchess friend" of whom she was very, very fond. The Duchess was a woman about Godmother's age, and quite as lovely to look at as a duchess should be. She was mistress of many and vast estates, and wore—on occasions—a coronet of diamonds and strings of pearls "worth a king's ransom," just like a duchess in a story. But she seemed to Mary Alice to have hardly the mildest interest in the jewels she wore and the palaces she lived in; Mary Alice found it hard to bear in mind that to the Duchess these were just as matter-of-fact, as usual, as unvariable, as the home sitting-room and the "good" hat had once been to Mary Alice. And like Mary Alice, the Duchess found her happiness in reaching out for something new and different. The Duchess liked the world that Godmother lived in—the world of Godmother's lovely mind; and she loved Godmother's companionship.

That was how it came about that Mary Alice found herself very often in exalted society. The exalted personages did not notice her much; but every once in a while, by remembering the Secret, she got on happy terms with some of them.

And at last a very unusual thing happened. The King was coming to honour the Duke and Duchess with a visit; coming to see one of those ancient and glorious estates the like of which no king owns, and which are the pride of all the kingdom. Many sovereigns had stayed at this splendid old place on England's south coast—a place as famous for its beauty as for its six hundred years of history; so it was no unusual thing for it to house a king. The unusual part of it all was Mary Alice being there. By the King's permission a wonderful house party was asked to meet him. Godmother couldn't be asked; she had never been presented, and the King was unaware of her existence. The Duchess would not have dared to present Godmother's name on the list submitted to the King. Much less, therefore, would she have dared to present Mary Alice's. "But——!" said the Duchess, and went on to unfold a plan.

If Mary Alice would not mind staying on with the Duchess while Godmother paid another visit; and if she would not mind having a room somewhere in a remote wing; and would not mind not being asked to mingle with the party in any way, she might see something of such sights as perhaps she would never be able to see otherwise. Mary Alice was delighted partly because she wanted to see the sights and partly because the thought of going away from this wonderful place made her heart ache. So she was moved out of the fine guest suite she and Godmother had been lodged in, and over to a room in a far wing of the vast house. From this wing one could look down on to the terraces for which the love and genius of none other than quaint John Evelyn—greatest of England's Garden Philosophers—were responsible. To these terraces the guests would certainly come, and to the world-famous rose garden into which also Mary Alice could look from her window in the far wing. But even if she were to see no royalty, she was grateful for the privilege of staying on a few days longer in this Paradise by the sea. And not the least delight of her new quarters was that they were high enough up so that from them she could overlook the sheltering Ilex-trees which made these marvellous gardens possible so close to the shore, and see the Channel ships a-sailing—three-masted schooners laden with wood; fishing-smacks; London barges with their picturesque red sails bellying in the wind; and an occasional ocean liner trailing its black smoke across the horizon. What with the sea and the gardens and the rich history of the place, Mary Alice felt that she could never tire of it, even if she did not see the King. But it would be delightful to see him, too. Some day the history of this splendid old place would include this royal visit; and Mary Alice, who had read of other such occasions and wished she might have been a mouse in a corner to witness them—as, for instance, when Queen Elizabeth was here—now felt the thrill of having that wish come true, in a way; and so far from feeling "set aside" or slighted, liked her window in the wing and her participation in the party above any other she might have had.

Mary Alice dined, the first night of the house party, with the Duchess's older children, and then went back to her room to sit at the window and look down on the terraces where, after a while, some of the men guests came to smoke.

It was late, but the twilight still lingered. Mary Alice could not tell who many of the men were, but she could see the King and she watched him interestedly as he paced up and down. She had been told how no one must speak to a king until the king has first spoken to him; and she felt that at best it must be a dreary business—being a king.