Marie-Celeste, with a meek1 little “thank you,” simply took the letter from Dorothy’s extended hand.
“And, Marie-Celeste,” Dorothy continued, “you are not showing them to your mother. They come enclosed in these envelopes, and that is so that she shall not know that you receive them, I suppose.”
“Yes, Miss Dorothy,” but with her mind quite intent on the letter, and therefore rather absent-mindedly.
“Well, then, do you know, I believe I shall tell her.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy,” with all the absent-mindedness gone in a minute, and with gravest reproach in the dark brown eyes, “you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t do that!”
“Why, my dear child, I almost feel as though I ought to; it is such an uncommon2 thing for a little girl of twelve to be in surreptitious correspondence with at least three different people, for there has been a different hand on every letter. It seems wrong to me to-be helping3 on such a mysterious proceeding4, with no idea whatever of what it all means.”
“Miss Dorothy,” said Marie-Celeste, “I am in a great big secret, that’s all, but I do wish—I do wish very much that you were in it too,” which was indeed the truth, for this not being able to talk over matters with anybody was almost more than she could longer endure.
“Well, don’t you believe it would do to take me in, then?” said Dorothy rather entreatingly5. “I confess I would like to know what Theodore Harris is writing to you about; and besides it doesn’t seem fair to put too much upon a little girl like you. You seem to be thinking so hard so much of the time.”
“They are pretty nice thoughts, though,” Marie-Celeste replied, “as you’ll see when I tell you, because I’ve about decided6 to tell you. I think it’s right, too, and I don’t believe they’ll mind, and I am going up to the house to bring the other two letters and read them to you. It will make you happier than anything you ever heard,” and Marie-Celeste spoke7 truer than she knew.
Meanwhile, Dorothy sat gazing out over beautiful Lake Coniston, wondering if she were really doing the right thing in persuading Marie-Celeste to confide8 in her, and unable to arrive at any decision. She was sitting on a little rustic9 seat down by the water’s edge, which Marie-Celeste, with her passion for exploring new surroundings, had discovered the evening before, almost immediately upon their arrival at the Waterhead Hotel. It was here that Dorothy had counted on finding Marie-Celeste, and it was here that she was left alone with her thoughts while Marie-Celeste ran off on her self-imposed errand. It was a beautiful little sheet of water that lay there at her feet, with its densely11 wooded banks and its wilderness12 still uninvaded by civilization; and just across the lake the setting sun was crimsoning13 the chimneys and pointed14 gables of the only house upon that farther bank. It is this home that lends its own special interest to the little lake, for it is the home of that grand old idealist, Ruskin. It is just such a home as you would know that wise philosopher would choose, far from the haunts of men and all the devastating15 improvements of the age. A grand place, too, to work, you think; and then you recall with a sigh that the light of that glorious mind has well-nigh gone out, ‘neath the weight of physical weariness and infirmity, and then the solitary16 home begins to look a little like a prison in your eyes, as you realize how glad its inmate17 would be to exchange it for the Palace of that King whose divine intent for the world he has so marvellously interpreted for us all in the days when soul was still master of hand and brain.
But there was no room in Dorothy’s mind just then for musings either on nature or Ruskin, and it is to be feared that the dancing blue of the water and the purple shadows on the hills and golden glow of the sunset made little impression on her wholly preoccupied18 mind. What could Theodore Harris be writing to Marie-Celeste about, and who could the other two letters be from? Those were the absorbing questions of the hour; and at last Marie-Celeste is back again on the little seat beside her, ready to unlock her precious secrets, and with the three mysterious letters spread, one upon the other, open in her lap.
“Now, think a moment, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy seriously; “are you sure it is perfectly19 right to tell me?”
“But you said you’d tell my mother if I didn’t,” laughed Marie-Celeste.
“Oh, no, dear! I didn’t put it quite like that. I only wondered if, perhaps, it was not my duty. But I know from what you have already told me that everything is all right. You see, I did not quite like to have a hand in anything so very unusual without being taken just a little into your confidence. You remember, when the other letters came, you scampered20 off in most excited fashion to read them all by yourself somewhere, and then never opened your lips about them afterward21, so that I could not help feeling that it was a very queer proceeding, and that I really ought to look into it.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly, Miss Dorothy; and Ted10 says right here at the end of his letter: ‘Tell Miss Allyn all about things if you think best.’” And of course that settled matters beautifully, quieting the last little suggestion of a compunction on Dorothy’s part.
“Now, the best way to tell you,” Marie-Celeste began, “will be to read the letters. This first one is from Donald. ‘London, August 20th’”—
“London, Marie-Celeste!”
“Wait, Miss Dorothy; it will explain itself,” smiling with delight at the pleasant surprises contained in those three precious letters.
“‘London, August 20th. My dear friend’ (you know, Donald has to begin that way, because he didn’t like to say Marie-Celeste, and so never called me anything), ‘you will be surprised to find I am in London, and, what is more, that 1 have come up to London as a valet for a gentleman, and the gentleman, let me tell you, is your cousin, Mr. Harris. You know we grew to be good friends all those weeks together down at the Hartleys’, at Nuneham!’”
“Do you mean to say,” interrupted Dorothy—for the letter was not explaining things quite as fully22 as might be desired—“that Donald has actually been staying in the same cottage with Theodore?”
“You knew about Ted’s accident, didn’t you, Miss Dorothy? Ted said you did, that your brother had told you.”
“Yes, I knew about that, but I do not know where it happened or where he has been staying all these weeks.”
“You’ve heard me talk about Chris, our postman, haven’t you, who came over on the steamer with us?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Well, then, if you will believe it, it was just by his grandfather’s cottage, just outside of Nuneham, where the accident happened, and they’re the people who’ve been caring for him; and then when Donald went down there to work on the farm, of course he discovered him; and then when I went down the other day from Oxford23, I discovered him too, and poor Ted’s had a very hard time to keep his secret.”
“But Harold was with you, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy eagerly; “does he know, too?”
“No, Harold doesn’t know; it’s all on his account that there’s any secret about it now; you know Ted wants to prove to Harold that he means to do the right thing before he lets him know the worst there is about him. He means to tell him everything some day.” And then Marie-Celeste proceeded to narrate24 at length her unexpected encounter with Ted under the apple-tree, so that Dorothy gradually came to a clear comprehension of how matters stood, and Marie-Celeste was free once more to let Donald speak for himself.
“‘And what we came up to London for,’ continued the letter, ‘was to see a gentleman about some business matters; and the gentleman we wanted to see was Mr. Belden—your rich old bachelor friend you know—and who did he prove to be but a Mr. Selden, Mr. Theodore’s own uncle? His name was printed Belden by mistake on the passenger list, and when Mr. Selden made friends with you that first day out, and found out that you were going to visit his nephews at Windsor, he didn’t tell anyone it was wrong, because he didn’t want you or your father or mother to know who he was.’”
“What did I tell you, Marie-Celeste,” interrupted Dorothy with a little air of superiority, “that time you told me about him in St. George’s? I knew it must be the same man.”
“But, Miss Dorothy, ever since this letter came I’ve been wondering why he didn’t want us to know who he was.”
“Because he has chosen forever so long not to have anything to do with any of his relations, for fear they’d bother him, I suppose.”
“Well, he’s gotten over that,” said Marie-Celeste; “you’ll see when I read his letter.” And Dorothy looked as though she thought wonders would never end, which was exactly the way Marie-Celeste wanted her to look, and would have been vastly disappointed if she had not.
“‘Land knows,’ read Marie-Celeste, resuming the letter, ‘why he wanted to be so mum about things; that’s his own affair, of course; but he’s been awfully25 good to us, and he has fixed26 up some matters that were bothering your cousin a great deal just beautifully. All the same, he doesn’t look a bit well, Marie-Celeste, and he’s a sad sort of man. It seems as though he had something on his mind, but he’s not going to let anybody know what it is—that isn’t his way. We’ve been in London now nearly a week, stopping in lodgings27 in the same house with Mr. Selden. We’ve had to stay because of the business matters, but to-morrow we are going down to Oxford to see to some things there, and then in a day or two home to the Little Castle. You see, I’ve been able to make myself real useful to Mr. Harris, because, you know, he’s not overstrong yet, and accustomed, besides, to having a valet—which is what I happen to be at present; but it’s not going to be for long, and between us, Marie-Celeste, I’m not sorry. I half believe that father of mine, that I don’t know anything about, must have been a sea-captain. There are times when it’s all I can do to keep from running away from everything and putting to sea again as fast as ever I can on any old tub that’ll take me; but, of course, I really wouldn’t do anything so mean; and all told, I have had a beautiful summer. Chris has decided to go back to the States on the Majestic28, sailing the first of October, and I’m to take my old place on that trip, too. It seems as though you all ought to be on board with us. Couldn’t you get your father to bring it about somehow? Whew, what a long letter I have written!—the longest in my life, and I never wrote more than half a dozen, anyway. Don’t stay away too long. It’s going to be rather lonely at Windsor without you all, and there isn’t so very much time left now. Won’t Mr. Harold be surprised to find his brother in the Little Castle ready to receive him! Mr. Theodore’s getting to be a brick, I can tell you. Good-by. As long as your people are not to know what’s in this letter, Mr. Harris tells me to put it in an envelope addressed to Miss Allyn.
“‘Yours truly,
“‘Donald.’”
0211
“So much for Donald;” and Marie-Celeste, pausing to catch her breath, hesitated to which of the other two letters to give the preference. “I think I’ll read Theodore’s next, Miss Dorothy, because it’s the latest, but really Donald’s the most interesting of the three. This letter, is from Windsor, and it was written only yesterday morning. It is dated 'The Little Castle.’ ‘Dear little Coz,’ it says, ‘here I am, you see, and I assure you I have kept my promise to the letter, and have come home as soon as ever I could.’”
“Why were you so anxious to make him promise that?” asked M iss Dorothy wonderingly.
“Why, because home’s the best place for him; don’t you think so? He has not been there half enough these last few years, and, besides, that’s where he belongs—”
“But having the Little Castle all to himself probably does not seem home-like,” suggested Dorothy sympathetically.
“Yes, that’s just what he says,” laughed Marie-Celeste; so that Dorothy thought her a trifle hard-hearted. “And now I’ll begin over again. ‘Dear little Coz, here I am, you see, and I assure you I have kept my promise to the letter, and have come home as soon as ever I could; but home doesn’t seem a very cheery sort of place when all your relatives are off on a lark29, and on your own brake at that, and you must fain content yourself with the companionship of your valet. He’s a fine little valet, however, Marie-Celeste, and he tells me that he has stolen my thunder in a long letter he wrote you from London; so you know all about my going in search of your friend, Mr. Belden, and finding in his place my uncle, Mr. Selden. Well, this letter is just to tell you what I told you once before, you remember, and that is, that you are my good little angel, no matter how bad you may have been for three whole days together,” and to ask you not to forget that there is rather a lonely fellow here at Windsor, who hopes you are having a good time, but who honestly thinks that the sooner you come home the better. Tell Miss Dorothy all about things if you think best, but don’t paint me any blacker than you feel you really have to.
“‘Yours faithfully,
“‘Theodore.’”
“Well, I haven’t painted him very black, have I?” said Marie-Celeste complacently30; but Dorothy was far too absorbed in her own thoughts to make any answer, and Marie-Celeste looked at her a little curiously31, wondering what was going on in her mind.
“Perhaps you’d rather be left to yourself?” she added half mischievously32, after a minute or more of unbroken silence.
'Oh, no; you didn’t paint him black at all for Dorothy was able instantly to bring her thoughts hack33 and say what was expected of her.
“This other letter,” explained Marie-Celeste, looking askance at the note in her hand, “is rather spooney; I don’t believe I had better read it.”
“Mr. Selden write a spooney letter! that’s impossible!” exclaimed Dorothy, who thought ‘she knew her man,’ as the saying goes; whereupon Marie-Celeste, of course, straightway read the letter in order to prove her premises34.
“‘Reform Club, London, August 20.
“‘They tell me, dear Marie-Celeste (and they means, of course, your Cousin Theodore and Donald), that you are taking a driving tour through the English lakes, and that if I should address a letter to you, care of Miss Dorothy Allyn, no one would be any the wiser; and that’s just what I’ve done, you see, as, for reasons of his own, your Cousin Theodore seems to prefer it. You know already that this same Cousin Theodore has been up here in London several days with me, and as a result we have had many a long talk together; but you do not know, perhaps, that we came to the conclusion that your coming to England this summer had been just the best thing that could have happened to both of us. Likely as not you do not exactly understand how that can be, and it is as well, perhaps, that you should not; only take my word for it, that it is true, and ask no questions. This much, however, I will tell you. Ted said to me one day, 'I can tell you one thing, Uncle Everett, it was a talk I had with that dear child under an apple-tree, down at Nuneham, that made me feel that some people whom I care a great deal for still had faith in me, and it was she who gave me courage by what she told me to go home as fast as ever I could get there and then, Marie-Celeste, what do you suppose I said to him? Well, I just, told him that that same dear child had preached me two blessed sermons—one on the deck of the Majestic and the other exactly where a sermon should be preached, beneath the roof of dear old St. George’s, and that what there was left of my life was going to be set in a new key.”
“This letter will not make you proud, Marie-Celeste, I know, only very grateful, and one day I believe you will understand better than it is possible for you now to understand to-day how even in this world the prophecy comes true sometimes that “a little child shall lead them.”
“You must write and tell me when you are going home, for somehow or other I must contrive35 to see you before you go, and what is more, I mean to seek out a chance for a good talk with your father and mother.
“‘Yours faithfully,
“‘Everett Belden.’”
“And you call that a spooney letter! Marie-Celeste, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” and Dorothy tried to look the reproach she felt the occasion called for.
“I only meant, Miss Dorothy, that it said some nice things about me.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, then, I’ll forgive you; but that is not what people usually mean by spooney,” and Dorothy putting her arm about Marie-Celeste, they strolled up to the house together. “And you understand—don’t you, dear?—that I did not mean to force your confidence in any way, only it did seem so mysterious?”
“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly; and you understand too, Miss Dorothy, how I would have told you about it long ago, if I thought I could and everything at last being mutually understood, there was happily no need for further explanations.”
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1
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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7
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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8
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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12
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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