“Marie-Celeste,” said Harold, who, like other boys, was rather inclined to rub a thing in, “it's the very best joke I have heard in all my life.”
“You are very unkind, Harold,” answered Marie-Celeste accusingly. “It is the most mortifying thing that ever happened, if she really was the Queen,” and then, trying to gather a little new courage, she added, “but I am not going to believe it till I have to. There must be a mistake somewhere. The lady we saw is not one bit like the pictures or the statues,” and yet all the time Marie-Celeste felt that she was clinging to a forlorn hope. During their stay at the castle there had been an occasional exchange of glances between their royal hostess and Miss Belmore and a frequent amused look in their eyes, which she had been at a loss to account for; but this would explain it all. Ah, yes! she knew almost to a certainty that their long talk about Petite Reine of other days had been with none other than La Grande Reine of to-day, and the crimes of the dreadful Huntington seemed hardly worse, for the moment, than that of that most audacious Albert!
CHAPTER XV.—A DARING SUGGESTION.
It was a close foggy morning in London, and Mr. Everett Belden, having breakfasted a whole hour earlier than usual, stood gazing out upon the street from one of the windows of the Reform Club. It is two months now since we let him go his lonely way from the steamer; and this may surprise you, for what with the doings up at Windsor and the complications in the cottage at Nuneham, you may not have kept any track of the time. None the less is it true that in all this while we have not given so much as a thought to Mr. Belden or to aught that concerns him; and for all I know it is just as well. The little “buttons” who keeps guard during the day at the door of the Reform Club and the smartly liveried Irishman who takes his place at night would both tell you that Mr. Belden has come in and out all the while with great regularity, having his saddle horse brought around at precisely the same hour every clear morning, and going out for a walk at precisely the same hour every afternoon. There is no evidence that in all these weeks he has been of the least real use to anybody, or that, notwithstanding his recent encounter with a little girl who had set him thinking rather seriously for a time, he had in any way altered or modified his selfish way of living. They are creatures of habit these self-centred old bachelors, and it takes a great deal to start them out along any new line of action, and doubly so when, like Mr. Belden, they do not know what it is to feel buoyantly well and strong. And so to all outward appearances there was no change whatever in this particular old bachelor, and the little sermon Marie-Celeste had unconsciously preached on the steamer and the reading of the “Story of a Short Life” had only given him a glimpse of what a noble thing life might be, without awakening any real determination to make his own life noble. But outward appearances, as often happens, are not by any means the infallible things the world would have us believe, and deep down in Mr. Belden's heart had dropped a little seed of unrest that made itself felt that sultry August morning; not but that his heart was all unrest for that matter, for there is no restlessness in the world like the restlessness of doing nothing; but this little seed was of a new and different character, and with such power of growth in it that, tiny though it was, it finally compelled Mr. Belden to take it into account.
“How queer it is,” he said to himself, “that I should feel constrained in this way to run out to Windsor! Land knows! I have no desire to come to be on intimate terms of acquaintance with Evelyn's boys; and what would be the satisfaction of prowling around just to see where they live? Their father gave me up after that time he spoke his mind so freely about my aimless life—as he was pleased to call it—and there is no reason whatever why I should bother myself about my sister's children, since she, poor thing! is dead and gone, and they have enough of this world's goods to make them comfortable. But I would give—yes, I would give a great deal for another glimpse of that child Marie-Celeste—for another talk with her, too, before she goes sailing back to the States, if only that were possible without my coming in contact with any of the rest of the household. Well, there seems to be nothing for it but to go to Windsor to-day, for it looks as though I should not get the best of this state of mind till I do.” Then he turned from the window, put on his coat, which was lying in readiness beside him, strolled out from the club, called for a hansom, directing the driver to take him to the station, and never for one minute admitted to himself that he had risen a whole hour earlier in order to do this very thing, or that he was acting on any stronger impulse than that of a passing fancy, born of the midsummer day, and desire for a little variety. So, out to Windsor he went, and choosing from among the carriages at the depot one that was manned by a respectable-looking old party, took his place on the front seat beside him, remarking that he had simply come down to see the town, and would first like to drive about for an hour.