Part 1

HIS LITTLE ROYAL HIGHNESS

By Ruth Ogden

Illustrated by W. Rainsey

New-York

1887

I.--CORONATION DAY

HE king's body-guard waited in the outer court of the palace, but the palace was only a dull, red cottage, and the court a low porch that surrounded three sides of it. As for the body-guard, they were not dressed as such great people are wont to be. One of them wore a calico dress, canvas shoes, and an untrimmed hat of soft red felt. The other, for there were but two of them, was resplendent in gray knickerbockers, and a blue flannel shirt, with white anchors worked in the corners of the sailor-shaped collar. As for the king, but a short time before' he had been only a rollicking little fellow astride of a cherry tree bough, and a blue-eyed little Nan had stood holding out her apron to catch the cherries he threw down, and gazing up at him with a face full of wonder at his daring. But the old and brittle bough had suddenly given way under his weight, and Reginald Fairfax tumbled in a sad little heap to the ground.

Quick as a flash Nan sat down by his side, with her feet straight out before her, and drew the brown head into her lap, while the tears fell fast on the face that seemed so still and lifeless. Her brother Harry ran for the young doctor up at the hotel, as fast as his stout little legs could carry him.

All this had happened only last week, and now Reginald lay on a hospital cot in his own little room in the cottage, and Harry and Nan were waiting on the porch till the doctor should come out and they could be admitted.

They were both very quiet, for they had not seen Regie since the accident, and were awed at the thought of being soon ushered into his presence. Harry kept making round holes in the gravel path with the heel of his boot; Nan sat staring in abstracted fashion at a little wreath of oak leaves which she was balancing on one extended hand.

Presently the doctor came out. “You can go up now,” he said, “Regie expects you.” Then he caught up his tennis racquet, which he had left on the porch, and hurried away, for the doctor was taking his vacation. If he had not been quite a young doctor, perhaps he would rather have forgotten for those two short weeks that there was such a thing as a patient in the world. But as matters stood he did not seem to mind in the least, that now and then he must stop whatever he was doing, and run over to see “how the little Fairfax boy was coming on,” and, young as he was, he had set Regie's leg as neatly and dexterously as any older and more experienced surgeon could have set it.

The children crept quietly up the stairway which landed them at Reginald's door. Nan paused midway in the room and looked toward Regie with a puzzled frown, for the little fellow stretched out on the cot did not seem exactly like the Regie she had known, tumbling around out of doors.

Harry scarcely stirred a foot beyond the door-sill, and screwed his funny round mouth into a funnier pucker, a queer little habit to which he always resorted in moments of embarrassment.

“I'm very sorry for you, Regie,” said Nan, drawing a trifle nearer.

“It is too bad,” replied Regie. “It couldn't be helped though;” a remark which he had volunteered several times, as if anxious that no one should think that carelessness had aught to do with the accident.

“We've thought of a splendid game,” said Harry, feeling that he ought to say something.

“I guess the only game I'll play for a good while will be still pond, no moving,” said Regie, with a poor little ghost of a smile.

“Oh! no, indeed,” cried Nan, eagerly, “you're to be the principal one in this game. You're to be a little king, and we are to be your body-guard.”

“What's a body-guard?” asked Regie, in a tone as though he doubted the merits of everything with which he could not claim previous acquaintance.

“Oh! it's a----, but we are not going to tell many people,” answered Harry, glancing significantly toward a room opening-out of Regie's, where some one, a stranger to him, sat knitting.

“She's only my nurse,” Regie explained; “you mustn't mind her, for she'll have to be round a great deal, and you don't catch me having a body-guard unless I know just what it is.”

“It won't hurt you,” laughed Nan, with her hands behind her back, and still standing in the centre of the room. Harry had made so bold as to take a seat on the edge of a high-backed rocker, so very much on the edge, in fact, that it threatened to land him on the floor any moment.

“Why don't you sit down, Nan?” Reginald asked at last.

“I can't sit down, Regie, because of the crown,” and Nan looked beseechingly toward Harry, as if acting under orders.

“Yes, you may show it now,” was Harry's patronising answer; whereupon Nan exultingly held up the little oak wreath before Regie's wondering gaze.

“Oh! is that the crown?” and Regie betrayed a shade of disappointment in his tone, having a conviction that such articles ought to be made of gold, or at least of silver.

“Oh! Regie, don't you like it? It took me a whole day to make it,” Nan exclaimed, with a perceptible quiver in her voice.

“Oh yes, it's very nice, very nice indeed! only--well! it'll wither, you know.”

“I can make another then,” she said, complacently, as though that objection were easily met. “May I put it on your head?”

“Certainly;” and Regie bent his head forward from the pillow.

“Nan stood in great awe of the apparatus of weights attached to the cot to keep Regie's limb from shortening while the broken bone was knitting.

“Are you sure it won't do your leg any harm?” she asked, nervously, holding the crown, poised in both hands, above his head, for she could only boast eight years, and was rather a timid little body. Regie laughed outright at this, and Harry shouted, “Of course not, goosie!” with true brotherly disgust.

Thus encouraged she dropped the crown on to Regie's head.

“You look lovely in it,” she said, bringing the hand-glass from the bureau; “you can lean your head back, it won't hurt the crown.”

“It hurts me though,” said Regie, settling back against the pillow, and holding the little mirror at arm's length that he might see the general effect; “it pricks.”

“I do not think a king ought to mind such a thing as a prick,” Nan remarked, seriously, for she possessed a lively imagination, and, for the time being, Regie was a real little king.

“Perhaps not,” said Regie, recalling something about “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” (which proverb had once been set for a copy in his writing book at school), and thinking how very true it was. “But you have not told me anything about the body-guard,” he added.

“As I understand it,” said Harry, who liked to use a big word when he could, “the body-guard sort of takes care of the king, and does whatever he tells 'em to do.”

“Then you and Nan are to do _whatever_ I tell you,” with an accent on the “whatever.”

“Yes,” said Nan, with hearty seriousness. Harry merely nodded his head, as if not quite willing to commit himself by an audible “yes.” He looked as though he foresaw some unpleasant possibilities in Regie's “whatever.”

“If you think of anything you'd like to have,” Nan farther explained, “why, Harry or I will run and get it--and things like that you know.”

“My! but that'll be fun for me,” said Regie.

“Of course it will,” Nan replied; “that's why we thought of it, because there's a great many kinds of fun you'll have to do without while you must lie so still. Will it be for very long, Regie?” she asked, wistfully.

“Pretty long, I guess,” answered Regie, with an honest little sigh.

“It was Nan that made it up,” said Harry, whose thoughts had a trick of following their own bent independent of other people's; “I don't know as I'm going to like it.”

“Like what?” queried Regie, with a puzzled frown.

“Why, the being ordered about.''

“Oh, I'll be easy on the body-guard,” laughed Regie.

“I'm ashamed of you, Harry Murray, to talk like that right before poor Regie!” and Nan's face showed how real was her mortification.

“I don't believe kings wear their crowns to bed!” exclaimed Regie, having borne the pricking of the stiff little leaves as long as he could. “This king won't, at any rate. Hang it on that nail, Nan, where I can reach it, and put it on whenever you seem to forget that I am the king, and you must mind me,” with a sly look toward Harry. Harry's threatened downfall became a reality just at that moment, and the unbalanced-rocking-chair landed him suddenly on the floor.

“I think we had better go now,” he said, picking himself up, with a furtive look in the direction of the nurse, knowing that such a mishap was rather inexcusable in a sick room.

“I should think we had,” observed Nan, with a good measure of reproach in tone and accent; and after a good-bye to Regie, and a friendly word or two from the nurse who had come in with Regie's luncheon, the children took their departure.

Down the path, across the boulevard and over to the beach they trudged, side by side, but without saying a word to each other. Nan was preserving a dignified silence, which means that she wished Harry to understand by her manner that she did not at all approve of his behaviour during their visit. But Harry was so completely absorbed in his own thoughts as to be quite unmindful of the implied rebuke. When they reached the beach he lingered to watch the fishermen bring their boat in over the surf, leaving Nan to walk the rest of the way home alone.

Regie felt tired after his talk with the children, and having eaten the luncheon, soon dropped off into a sound little nap, to dream of kings and queens and all sorts of royal things, suggested, no doubt, by the oak-leaf crown on which his brown eyes were resting the last moment before the long lashes closed over them. In these brown eyes and long lashes lay the charm of Regie's face, and he had reason to be very grateful to them. Perhaps you wonder how this could be? Well, the very next chapter will tell you.

II.--THE KING HOLDS AND INTERVIEW WITH SISTER JULIA

HE second evening after Reginald's accident, Mr. Fairfax sat down by his cot, and taking up his little brown hand, said cheerily, “Well, Master Regie, we shall need to have a nurse for you.”

“I should think I was rather too old for that, sick or well,” replied Regie, biting his lip, lest unruly tears should betray that he was not so very old after all.

“Why, Reginald,” laughed Mr. Fairfax, “grown-up people have nurses when they break their legs, and are glad enough to get them. Your mamma Fairfax will never be able to do all that must be done for you, and Dr. Delano knows of a splendid nurse. He is sure you will like her, and he would be glad to have her come here to the seashore for a while. He says it will do her good as well as you.”

So it happened that Sister Julia arrived the very next day, and Regie grew fond of her in almost less time than it takes to tell it. He thought she had the sweetest face he had ever seen, and a good many other people thought so too. She always wore a pretty cap, a little square shawl, and a long full apron, all made of the same soft, white material.

“Of course,” thought Regie, “it's all right for a nurse to wear an apron, and I know some children have French nurses with caps; but Sister Julia is not French, and besides, what's the use of the little shawl?” and as was usual when he did not thoroughly understand anything, he soon made inquiries on the subject.

Sister Julia was sitting at the east window of Regie's room, watching two schooners far out at sea, whose sails, aglow with the red light of the sunset, made them look like fairy boats of conkshell. “Oh, Regie!” she said, at last, earnestly, “I never saw the ocean as beautiful as it is to-night. I wish you were able to have me lift you up, so that you could have a look at it.”

“I would rather look at you any day,” Regie said, honestly, “because you do look lovely in those white fixings, but I do not see very much sense in 'em.”

“I'm afraid there isn't very much sense in them, Regie; only that we all wear them.”

“All your family?”

“Yes, all my family. And how many do you suppose there are of us?” Regie looked mystified. “There are seventy-five.” Regie looked incredulous, but he had a foolish notion of never liking to appear astonished at anything, so he said quite casually, as though he were asking the most commonplace question, “And are you the oldest of seventy-five?”

“Do you think I look old enough for that?”

“No, not exactly, but your hair is pretty gray, and no one that's young has gray hair, you know.”

“You are not far from right, Regie, but gray hair or no, I am not the oldest of my seventy-five sisters. Have you never heard of a Sisterhood,--that is, of a society of women who bind themselves together for some sort of work?”

“Oh yes, often,” said Regie, not meaning to be untruthful, but because always averse to pleading ignorance on any subject. At any rate, if he had heard of a sisterhood his ideas were somewhat vague regarding it.

“Well, I belong to such a society, and all who join it pledge themselves to follow its rules, to take the title of Sister, and to wear these white fixings as you call them, and the work of our society is to care for the sick.”

“Have you got to do it all your life?” he asked, shaking his brown head from side to side by way of sympathy.

“No, we are not obliged to do it always. We can resign at any time, but most of us love the work so much, that it would be a great trial to give it up.”

Regie did not speak for several seconds, then he said, timidly, “Would you not like to be married, Sister Julia?”

“Well, Regie, that depends,” she answered, with an amused smile.

“I should think some one would have wanted you. Did nobody ever?”

“These are pretty plain questions, Regie,” said Sister Julia, as indeed they were; and then Regie suddenly remembered that Mamma Fairfax had told him, and but a little while ago, too, that he must get the better of this questioning trick of his.

“I did not think you would mind,” he said, and his voice trembled a little.

“Oh no, dear! Of course I don't mind; only you see it might be rather embarrassing to have to own up that nobody ever had wanted me.”

“But I know somebody did, because----” Regie paused a second, for he was not sure he ought to tell this; but his desire got the better of his judgment, as often happens with older people, “because I overheard Dr. Delano tell Papa Fairfax that somebody did want you, but that you sent him away 'cause you thought you'd better care for sick children.”

“It does not matter much, Regie, whether all that is true or not; but I think we have talked quite long enough about me. Let us talk about you a little while.”

“Oh, there's nothing particular about me, 'cept that I'm adopted. I suppose you know that, everybody does,” with a little sigh, as though he wished everybody didn't.

“Yes, I know; but I do not believe Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax could love you more if you were their own little boy.”

“I am their own little boy, too. I mean, I mean----” and without a word of warning Regie burst into tears.

An unusually sweet look of sympathy came into Sister Julia's face just then, as she moved her rocking-chair close to the cot, and began stroking Regie's hair, for he was crying too hard for her to attempt to reason with him. Her heart went straight out to this high-strung, sensitive boy, and she was sorry enough in any way to have grieved him. By-and-by, when the tears were somewhat under control, he said, with a little convulsive sob between every two or three words----

“I know you did not mean to say anything, but I could not help crying. Some folks, you know, thinks there isn't any good in adopted children. It's an awful pity fellows can't choose their own fathers and mothers; I'd have chosen Papa and Mamma Fairfax every time, and then I could have called them just papa and mamma the way other children do. I do wish they'd never told me about it,” and the tears threatened to overflow again.

“Ah, Regie,” said Sister Julia, quietly, “you know that they have taught you to call them Papa and Mamma Fairfax only because they feel they have no right to the very same names as you would have used for your own father and mother, if they had lived.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered, sadly.

“Regie, I would like to tell you a story. Do you feel like listening?”

A sort of little after-sob helped to give Regie's head a forward shake which meant, yes, he would like to listen.

“Well, about thirty years ago, a little girl was left quite alone in the world. Her father, a young physician, and her mother, were both taken away in one week by a terrible fever, which had broken out in the village in which they lived. At first there seemed to be no one to care for the little girl, but after a while a lady, whose baby had died with the fever, offered to take her; and oh, how kind she was to her for years and years, and the little girl never dreamed that she was not her very own mother. Well, it happened one day at school, when the little girl was twelve years old, that an unkind boy called to her: 'Say, Julia, you're only adopted, aren't you?' Only adopted, what could he mean? The words kept ringing in Julia's heart, and at recess she slipped away and ran home as fast as she could.”

“'It is not true that I am only adopted, is it, mamma?' she said, as she rushed into the house.”

“'Yes, yes, it is true,' said her mother, sadly; 'but who has told you about it, Julia?' The little girl did not answer; she cried and cried and could not be comforted. 'Why did you not tell me yourself, mamma?' she sobbed over and over again.” Sister Julia paused a moment to run the window shade up to the top, so that Regie could see the evening star growing bright in the deepening twilight.

“I should not wonder,” said Regie, “if we were talking about you again, Sister Julia.”

“I should not wonder if we were, so you see I know just how to feel for you; only I think it is better always to have known the facts as you have done, than to have it come suddenly upon one, and perhaps as roughly as it did upon me.”

Regie laid his hand over in Sister Julia's lap, “I'm awfully glad you were adopted,” he said, stroking her hand affectionately.

“Why, dear child?”

“Oh, because--well--I shall never be ashamed of it now, I guess. I used to think it was kind of disgraceful, and that it made a difference in a fellow's looks somehow; but I'm sure it doesn't in yours.”

“Oh, Regie! what a foolish notion,” and Sister Julia laughed merrily.

“I did though,” said Regie, “really.”

“Do you know, Regie, I think you ought to be one of the happiest children in the world, and you yourself know why.”

“Well, I suppose,” said Regie, thoughtfully, “that I ought to remember how different it would have been if they had not taken me, and that ought to make me very happy; and, Sister Julia, I am happy, almost always. Anyhow, I guess I'll never be unhappy again about being adopted. I do love Papa and Mamma Fairfax dearly; nobody knows how much,” and Regie's face glowed and his eyes kindled with loyal affection. Speaking of eyes, a promise at the end of the last chapter must not be forgotten. Regie owed a particular debt to these brown eyes and long lashes of his, because when he was but a little baby, and while his own mother was living, they had won his way right into Mrs. Fairfax's heart, and so, when he was left an orphan, what more natural than that they should win his way right into her arms as well.

III.--THE FAIRFAXES CALL ON THE MURRAYS

EGIE'S accident had happened late in June, and the weeks had worn slowly away with their dull monotony varied by many a visit from loyal Nan and Harry. Now, it was the middle of August, and Regie was about again, only with an addition to the bodyguard in the shape of two sturdy little crutches. It happened one evening about this time, when Regie had been stowed away for the night, that Mr. Fairfax was walking up and down in front of his cottage in a “brown study,” which means, you know, that he was thinking too hard about something in particular, to pay any attention to things in general. It seemed a pity he should not discover in what a glory of gold and crimson the sun was setting, and how beautiful its reflection over on Pleasure Bay. Then a party of the neighbours' boys were engaged in some dexterous and pretty bicycle-riding a little way up the road, and he was missing that also.

Hereward, a greyhound, only he was fawn-coloured instead of gray, and Ned, a Gordon setter, would now and then come bounding up to their master, expecting to be petted, and look strangely surprised when he took no notice of them. They would plant their forefeet in the ground, with their heads on one side, in a questioning, beseeching manner, and stand gazing up for a moment into his face, but only for a moment; there were too many circles to be described, and too many matters to be looked into, to waste much time upon such an indifferent master. Presently the click and bang of a swinging screen door roused Mr. Fairfax from his reverie, and he hurried to join his wife, who had just come out from the house.

She was a lovely little woman, this Mrs. Fairfax, with a face not unlike Sister Julia's, and whether joy or pathos found most expression in her clear gray eyes no one could discover.

She had no sooner stepped on to the piazza, than Hereward and Ned were fairly leaping upon her. There was a little shawl on her arm, and a lace scarf on her head, which they well knew meant a walk to the beach, and, from their point of view, nothing quite compared with that.

“I do not need to ask what you have been thinking about, Curtis,” Mrs. Fairfax said to her husband, when they had gone but a little way; “you are wondering and wondering, and so am I, whatever we shall do with Regie.”

“It has been a puzzling question, Alice,” said Mr. Fairfax; “but I believe I am prepared to answer it. I think the best thing we can do will be to leave him here at the beach.”

“Why, Curtis dear, that is simply impossible,” Mrs. Fairfax replied, in a decided little way of her own; “there will not be a cottage open here two months from now.”

“I know of one cottage, at any rate,” said her husband, “that is open all the year round, and where Reginald and Sister Julia would be likely to have a very happy time of it while we are away.”

“Of course, you mean Captain Murray's.”

“Of course I do. Don't you agree with me about its being a good place, and had we not better walk right up there now and see if they will consider it?” They had come to the railroad crossing, and the shrill whistle of a locomotive brought them to a standstill. Seldom an express train went spinning through Moorlow that Hereward did not run a race with it, and the engineers on the road were always on the lookout for him. Hereward was a very knowing dog; he would lie dozing in the sun, and let the local trains steam up to the little station and off again, without so much as cocking up an ear, but would detect the approach of the “express” way down the track. To-night proved no exception to the rule. Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax watched him proudly, as in a flash he gathered himself together and started for the race. For fully a quarter of a mile he held his own, and, if he had possessed as inexhaustible a supply of breath as the iron-chested engine, his long limbs might sometimes have won him the victory.