“You see he wasn't a goody boy at all,” she said, when all was told, “just brave and grand.”
“I see,” said Mr. Belden, which was quite true, notwithstanding a strange and wholly new sensation in his eyes. “And now if you will excuse me,” he added, “I will go down to the smoking-room and commence the book at once.”
Marie-Celeste was rather surprised to find herself left thus abruptly alone. Happily for her, however, she did not know how sadly akin to Leonard's had been some of Mr. Belden's experiences, or she would have flinched a little in the telling. It was the realization of this kinship of experience and yet of the widely different effect upon soul and character that had impelled him to take his sudden leave of Marie-Celeste, and then, pausing a moment at the smoking-room door, he went on and down to his state-room, for he had much to think over, and a long, long time he sat there, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
CHAPTER V.—AND STILL ANOTHER.
Although a transcendent interest in grown-up people is one of the traits that make it worth while to tell this story of a summer in the life of little Marie-Celeste, yet she was none the less a friend of children of her own age, or over it or under it for that matter, provided they seemed to stand in want of a friend. Otherwise, it must be confessed, she concerned herself very little about them. Born with a positive genius for spending and being spent, the claims and opportunities of ordinary child friendships seemed hardly to give her enough breathing room; and so it chanced that she passed very little time with the faultlessly dressed and somewhat overcared-for children of the steamer, who did not seem to need her, and a great deal of time with Chris and Mr. Belden, who did. Be it said to the credit of the latter gentleman that, after that first conversation with Marie-Celeste, he was far more careful in the way he talked with her, and Mr. Harris was quick to discover the fact, or the new friendship would have ended as unexpectedly for Mr. Belden as it had begun. There was about Marie-Celeste at all times the same implicit childish confidence that unnerved the bold robber in “Editha's Burglar,” and yet she herself was always quick to discover when this same confidence was being taken advantage of, and when she would best fly to cover. More than once she had shown in her contact with people an inerrancy of intuition (if my youngest readers will excuse two such big words) that had greatly gratified her father and mother, who had a theory of their own about the education of children, and gave her rather more rein than some would consider either safe or advisable. At the same time, every movement of the little daughter was carefully watched and every project followed up by a certain paternal relative, and never more so than during those days of steamer life, when so many hours were passed with the new friend and the postman. When with Chris it was forward clear to the bow to lean over the rail and see the magnificent prow cut the water; or way to the stern, to watch the far-shining train, the screws churned into white foam behind them; or an hour 'midships, where the ever-varying amusements with which the steerage passengers beguile the weary hours can be looked down upon from the saloon deck of either first or second cabin. Then, at five every clear day, afternoon tea with the captain, for which they had a standing invitation, and by means of which both she and Chris came to be on terms of wonderful intimacy with that august officer, so that they joked over the rare souchong and delicious little toasted cakes (the secret of whose making was kept close-guarded by the steward) with a familiarity that, to themselves at least, never ceased to be a wonder. With Mr. Belden everything was different. It was generally after an hour or so of prowling about with Chris, and when she was a little tired and in the mood for a quiet talk, that she would seek him out; and, as a rule, she would find him comfortably tucked up in a steamer rug, with another awaiting her coming on a chair beside him. Then Chris, after carefully tucking her in, in most approved fashion, would be off, with a touch of his hat, and with profound gratitude in his heart for the strength of limb and muscle that made him regard Mr. Belden's inactive life in the light of a sorry burden. That the latter often so regarded himself was evident in the ever-deepening lines of weariness that seamed his pale and handsome face.
“Well, what have you and your good Chris been up to to-day?” would be invariably Mr. Belden's first question; and after Marie-Celeste had told the little or much there was to tell, they would as invariably drift round to talking about books, for they both loved them. One day it was “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “Hans Brinker,” and then Marie-Celeste “had the floor”; and the next it was “The Story of a Short Life,” when honors were even, as they used to say in whist, because both had so lately read it. And then for three days together, during the hour for the daily chat, Marie-Celeste sat an entranced listener, while the wonderful story was told of beautiful little Isabel of Valois, the child-queen whom Richard of Bordeaux brought to England at the age of nine, and whose childish reign was so soon concluded. It had chanced that the book that had been brushed so summarily from Mr. Belden's hand when Marie-Celeste made his acquaintance had proved to be Dixon's “Royal Windsor;” and as soon as the terms of their friendship were unquestionably established, she made so bold as to ask many questions regarding its contents; for what could have more interest for a Windsor-bound little maiden than the story of the Royal Castle? And the best part of it was that the book happened to be the second volume, and therefore contained the history of Madame la Petite Reine, as the little French Isabel was called. Never proved fairy tale more charming than this true story as it fell from Mr. Belden's lips. Over and over he told it, adding each time some delightful new touch of detail, till at last Marie-Celeste knew it quite by heart, and rested therein contented.
But not all of their little daughter's time, that Mr. and Mrs. Harris were willing to spare to others, was spent with these grown-up friends of hers. On the second day out Chris had made a most interesting and pathetic discovery. A little sick bugler was stowed away in an undesirable second-cabin state-room that had remained unengaged; and Chris, noticing that a bowl of broth or some sort of nourishing food was carried thither three times a day, but that apart from this no one ever entered or left the state-room, questioned the steward, and as soon as he learned the facts, made his own way in, to the great delight of the lonely little fellow. Then the next morning he interested Mrs. Harris (who was proving a far better sailor than any one had dared to hope) in his new little protégé, and after that, as a matter of course, Marie-Celeste and the little bugler became the best of friends.