“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 reign11 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 maiden12 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 delightful13 new touch of detail, till at last Marie-Celeste knew it quite by heart, and rested therein contented14.
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 bugler15 was stowed away in an undesirable16 second-cabin state-room that had remained unengaged; and Chris, noticing that a bowl of broth17 or some sort of nourishing food was carried thither18 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.
“Donald,” she said on her second visit, for the one preceding had naturally been limited to the ordinary themes of first acquaintance, “I wish you would tell me a little more about yourself. Mamma says you have been ill a long time in New York with a fever, but that now you are quite over it and are on your way home; and that’s all we know.”
“That’s all there is,” running one little white hand through his hair as he spoke19, in an apparent effort to make himself more presentable.
“Oh, you’re all right,” said Marie-Celeste, smiling; “curly hair like yours looks better when it’s mussed.”
“Would you like me to come and straighten you up a bit?” called Chris, who had really established himself as Donald’s nurse, and sat whittling20 in his own state-room just across the passage.
“No, Chris, he doesn’t need you at all,” Marie-Celeste volunteered; “he looks very fine as he is” (which gracious compliment brought a very becoming color to the little blanched21 face). “Besides, Chris, he is going to tell me something about himself—aren’t you, Donald? Just what you choose, though, you know, because mamma said I must not seem to be inquisitive22, and I’m not, Donald, really—just interested, that’s all.”
“What kind of things do you want to know?” as though quite willing to be communicative, but at a loss where to begin.
“Why, how you happened to be a bugler, and how you happened to be ill in New York, and where your home is?”
“No home,” said Donald, laconically23, and with an unconscious little sigh that went straight to Marie-Celeste’s heart; “I was in the Foundling Hospital all my life till I came on the Majestic24.
“Ill all your life!” exclaimed Marie-Celeste.
“Oh lands, no! I never was ill a day that I know of till that fever got hold of me.”
“Then why did you stay in an hospital?”
“It was more what we call an asylum25 in America,” explained Chris, who, as a permitted eavesdropper26, felt at liberty to join in the conversation on occasion.
“It’s a place,” explained Donald, “where children are cared for who haven’t any particular fathers or mothers.”
“Oh!” said Marie-Celeste, but in a bewildered way, as though she could not quite take in the idea.
“It isn’t very pleasant not knowing who you belong to, but it isn’t such a bad place to stay. They keep things scrubbed up to the nines, and everything’s as neat and well ordered as a ship. I think being trained that way was one thing that made me want to go to sea.”
It was easy to see, from the grave look on Marie-Celeste’s face, that she was still pondering the sad predicament of “no particular father or mother,” but she asked, “Where was the hospital, Donald?”
“In London; and like as not if you go there you’ll go out to see it. They always have lots of visitors on Sundays. They dress the girls up awful pretty in black dresses with short sleeves, and mitts27 that come way up over the elbow, like ladies’ gloves at a party, and caps and kerchiefs folded crosswise round their shoulders, like this.”
“You’ve seen a picture of them singing out of a book, haven’t you?” called Chris, by way of illustration.
“Why, so I have,” said Marie-Celeste; “we gave an artist-proof of it to our minister one Christmas.”
“I’ve seen it too,” continued Donald, wondering whether an artist-proof and a waterproof28 had anything in common; “but the girls aren’t often so handsome as that; but I’ll tell you when they do look pretty as a picture: that’s on a clear Sunday morning, just about midway in the service, when the sun comes streaming through one of the choir29 windows in a great white shaft30 of light, I think they call it. It just goes slanting31 across the benches, and then the girls it happens to strike, no matter how homely32 they are, really look just beautiful, with their white caps and kerchiefs all lighted up in the sunshine. I used to think they put the girls on that side to show them off, for the boys just look pretty much as boys always do.”
“But you have a home now, haven’t you, Donald, that you’re going to when we reach England?”
“No; I don’t know where I’m going; I haven’t decided,” he added, with studied indifference33; for Donald preferred not to burden these new friends of his with his trials and perplexities. Likely as not he would be able to find some decent enough place in Liverpool, and he thought, if he managed very carefully, his savings34 might be made to hold out till he could put to sea again on his dear old Majestic.
“And now I’d like to know all about you,” said Donald, by way of changing the subject; “there must be a deal more to tell when you’ve had your father and mother to help you remember things, than when you’ve had to do all the remembering yourself. Getting your start in a foundling hospital is sort of like being led into the world blindfold35.”
“Pretty old talk for a youngster,” thought Chris; “but I suppose it comes along of his being alone half the time, with so much chance to think.”
“Would you like me to commence at the very beginning,” asked Marie-Celeste, “when I was just a mere36 scrap37 of a thing?” Donald nodded assent38.
“Well, then, I was rather good-looking, if you don’t mind, and a real sunshiny little body, papa says.” Donald looked as though he could readily believe it, and Chris, in the retirement39 of his stateroom, shook his head, as though he felt sure of it.
“But of course I soon got over that, and almost as soon as I was in short dresses I began to show I had quite a little will of my own, and then for two or three years they had a pretty hard time with me. I would have regular tantrums, and just kick and scream if I couldn’t do just what I wanted to. I had two dear little brothers then, and I remember—-yes, I remember this myself—how they used to amuse me and try to make me good. And sometimes they seemed very proud of me, and sometimes, Donald, I was proud of myself, too. Mamma used to dress me in white dresses with short sleeves that came just to my elbow, tied round with pink or blue ribbons, and a sash to match, tied on one side in front, and I knew it was pretty and stylish40, and used to walk around with my head in the air, and people would laugh and say I was awfully41 cunning. Somehow or other I was rather spoiled, you see; but when I was only five years old Louis and Jack42 died, both in one week, of diphtheria, and mamma says from that week I have never given her any real trouble. It seemed as though I remembered how Louis and Jack wanted me to be good, and so I did try very hard. And now I almost always think of them when I am getting into a temper, and if I get the best of it, I feel that they know and are glad.”
“It must have been hard for your mother to do without them,” said Donald a little awkwardly, but with his face full of sympathy.
“Very hard, Donald; and oh, how she used to cry; but mamma is very good and sweet, and is so thankful that she has papa and me left. You know, Jack and Louis used to say, ‘Jesus, gentle Shepherd.’ at bedtime every night, just as I do, and mamma says she thinks of them now, just as little lambs safe-folded by the dear Shepherd they used to pray to every night. I think it’s that that makes her brave and bright.”
“That’s a beautiful way to think,” said Donald warmly, and Chris thought so too, and stopped whittling.
“Have you no brothers or sisters now?” questioned Donald.
“No, none; so, you see, it would be a shame if I didn’t try to be all the comfort I could; and now you know all there is about me.”
“Why, no, I don’t,” said Donald, surprised, folding his hands behind his head by way of a change of position; “I don’t know where you live, or where you are going, or how you came to know Mr. Hartley, or what you are going to do this summer;” whereupon Marie-Celeste straightway proceeded to give all the desired information, and more besides.
Watchful43 Chris thought he began to detect signs of weariness in Donald’s occasional answers, and as soon as he felt sure of it he bundled Marie-Celeste off in a hurry, and pinning a shawl over the port-hole, left the little convalescent for a nap undisturbed in his darkened state-room.
And now you have at least an idea of how Marie-Celeste passed her time on the steamer, and you can understand how there might have been some people rather less glad than sorry when they felt the machinery44 stop at two o’clock one morning, and knew that the Queenstown passengers were being transferred to the tender, and that before sunset all the people aboard the great steamer would be separated to the four winds. Chris was sorry, because he had looked forward with so much pleasure to the voyage across with Marie-Celeste, and it had all so far exceeded his expectations.
Donald was sorry, because he never had met “such lovely people” as the Harrises and Mr. Hartley, and never expected to again, and I half believe Mr. Belden was sorriest of all. He was going right up to his club in London, to lead the same old loveless, self-centred life, and somehow the glimpse of something very different he had had through Marie-Celeste made it appear more vapid45 and colorless than ever. But the steamer did not mind how any of her passengers were feeling—she must make the best possible record, no matter who was glad or sorry; and on she steamed, past lonely and beautiful Holyhead, and then through the wide Irish Sea (that seems indeed a veritable ocean in its wideness), until land once more was sighted and the harbor reached, and the anchor dropped off the wonderful docks at Liverpool. And then, in a few moments, the tender that was to land them was bearing down upon them, and a handsome, eager-faced little fellow, in an Eton jacket, was standing as far forward as possible in her bow, and an older fellow, who resembled the younger one closely, was standing, I am happy to say, close beside him.
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1
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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bugler
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| 喇叭手； 号兵； 吹鼓手； 司号员 | |
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16
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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17
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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mitts
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| n.露指手套，棒球手套，拳击手套( mitt的名词复数 ) | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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29
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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30
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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40
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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41
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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42
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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43
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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44
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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