Kitabı oku: «Rilla of the Lighthouse», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXX.
JOY’S SECRET
When Joy realized that she would be unable to play in the tournament, which was the formal closing of the tennis season at High Cliffs, she resolved to teach Muriel the trick which her brother had taught her which would send a ball over the net with a smash and kill it before it bounced. The island girl knew the rules of the game, it would seem, and how light she was on her feet and how swift! If she could master that trick in one week, there still might be hope of winning. Muriel was sitting at her desk studying spelling early the next morning when there came a tap on her door. She thought it was the maid of that corridor and called, “Come in.” But when she saw the blue and gold apparition standing in the open doorway she sprang to her feet and held out both hands. “Oh, Joy!” she exclaimed. “It is good of you to come to see me. Do you think you’re strong enough to be walkin’ that far?”
The visitor sank down in the big, comfortably upholstered wicker chair near the hearth, where a bed of coals glowed. “I feel all right this morning,” she said, “but after yesterday’s experience I am convinced that I am not strong enough as yet to play in the tournament; and, Muriel, if you will promise not to share the knowledge without my permission, I will teach you the trick that my brother taught me.”
Muriel’s hazel eyes were wide. “But, Joy,” she ejaculated, “why is it me you would be teachin’ when Faith, Catherine and Gladys all play so much better?”
Joy smiled as she replied: “I have two excellent reasons. One is that the other girls are busy with their classes nearly all of each day, while you and I are not. As yet I have not started the regular work. And so you and I could go down to the court at an hour when it would be unoccupied. My other reason is that you are the only one on our side who can run as does our rival, Marianne Carnot.”
Muriel flushed with pleasure. “I’d be that pleased if I could help win the game,” she said. “I’ll gladly try, though I’m not expectin’ to be able to learn the trick.”
“Try is all that any of us can do in this world, it would seem,” Joy said as she arose. “I see that you are studying, and I, too, must get at my French. Madame Van de Heuton is helping me keep up with the class, as Mother plans a visit to the continent next summer if I am strong enough.” Joy hesitated, then continued: “Muriel, would you like to study French with me? The review from the very beginning would do me just worlds of good.” There were sudden tears in the eyes of the island girl. “How kind you all are to be helpin’ me,” she said, adding: “If you think I’ll be needin’ the French, I’ll try.”
“Indeed you will need it, some time.” Then Joy suggested that they go to the court at two, when every other pupil would be occupied indoors. Muriel said that she would. At the door Joy turned, and lifting a finger, slender as a fairy-wand, she whispered, “Mums the word! Don’t even tell Faith, will you?”
Luckily the court was hidden from the school by a group of evergreen trees and so no one observed the two conspirators that afternoon. Patiently Joy explained the play, and Muriel, who was used to quick thought and action in her sailboat, was an apt pupil.
At the end of the first half hour Joy declared that practice was all that the island girl needed to perfect her in the smash stroke. “Meet me every day at this hour,” her instructress said, as they returned to the school by a roundabout path, keeping their rackets well hidden.
With each succeeding day Joy’s pleasure in her pupil increased. She did not have to expend much energy herself, as when the ball fell dead she merely picked it up and tossed it over the net. At first Muriel succeeded only once in a while, but on the fifth day she never failed.
And yet, at the practice hour with the other girls, not once did Rilla betray the fact that she knew the smash stroke. Joy wanted to surprise them on the day of the tournament.
Faith, Gladys and Catherine wondered why Joy seemed to be so excited about the coming game, indeed almost jubilant.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE TENNIS GAME
A glorious autumn day dawned, and great was the excitement at High Cliffs, for many interesting events were to take place before the setting of the sun, foremost among them being the contest for the tennis championship.
Joy had told the three with whom she had expected to play that she wished they would continue their plans and permit Muriel to take her place.
Catherine Lambert had stared in amazement. “Joy,” she exclaimed, “you don’t think that Muriel Storm can play well enough to enter the tournament, do you?” Then added: “Not but that I would be glad indeed to play with Muriel, but since she has had scarcely a month’s practice I merely thought her hardly well enough prepared; and, of course, we don’t want to fail so completely that we will be laughed at by the entire school.”
Joy, for one impulsive moment, was inclined to tell Cathy the whole truth, but her better judgment prevailed, for she thought it very possible that Muriel might become self-conscious when she found herself playing before so many spectators and perhaps forget the trick she had so recently learned. After all it would be better not to praise the island girl’s playing too much, for she might fail.
Joy stood looking out of her open window at the blue Hudson for a long, thoughtful moment before she inquired: “With whom are you planning to play, Catherine?” Her voice showed no trace of the disappointment that she truly felt because Muriel was not to be chosen.
“Jane Wiggins plays very well, indeed,” was the reply. “I watched her for half an hour yesterday while she was practicing on the court. She doesn’t really belong to either side, although she said that Marianne Carnot had asked her to substitute. She is to sit on a bench nearby and be ready to run into the game if one of the players slips or wrenches her ankle or anything of that sort. When I spoke to Jane she said that she had not really promised Marianne that she would substitute, and that she would much rather play in the game.”
Joy smiled. “Oh, course, Cathy dear, you girls are to do the playing, I am not; and you must select whoever you wish, but I had hoped that you would want Muriel to play with you.”
“Suppose we place Muriel on the bench to substitute for us. Of course, any player is likely to slip and be out of the game,” Gladys suggested.
This was agreed upon and to Joy fell the task of telling Muriel that she had not been chosen. When the others had gone, Joy went to the cupalo room and knocked. Muriel, she found, was already dressed in the short skirt and bloomers which the girls of High Cliffs were permitted to wear for their outdoor sports.
“What is it, Joy? What have you to tell me?” Rilla asked, for one glance at the lovely face of their Dresden China girl assured her that something was wrong. It was with a sigh of relief that she heard what had happened.
“Oh, I’m that pleased,” she said, “an’ I do hope you’re not mindin’, but I most couldn’t sleep last night with worryin’ about the games. I was so afraid that our side would lose, and if it did I knew that it would be my fault. Yesterday I happened to be out by the courts and saw Marianne Carnot and Adelaine Stuart practicin’, and such playin’ as they can do.”
Then, peering into the troubled blue eyes of her friend in the same coaxing way that she had often peered under the shaggy grey brows of her grand-dad, she said: “Please forgive me, Joy, for bein’ glad about it, since you’ve tried so hard to teach me the stroke, an’ if you’re wishin’ it, I will sit on the bench and be substitute, but I haven’t much hope of our side winnin’ since I saw those two play.”
With this arrangement Joy had to be content and she went back to her room to dress, not as one of the players, but in her warm all-over coat, since she was just to stand around and watch, for the air was invigoratingly cold.
Although the bloomer suits worn by the players all were a light tan, their tams and sweater-coats were of various colors. Many eyes followed the dark, handsome French girl whose chosen hue was that of a cherry. She knew that it was most becoming to her, but since there were no lads about to impress, she cared little what manner of appearance she might be making. However, she did want to win the game by fair means or foul since her opponents were the girls who had befriended Muriel Storm, the one person in the whole world whom she wished to humiliate.
Marianne lifted her finely arched black eyebrows ever so slightly as she glanced across the net to the spot near the evergreens where the five opponents were gathered.
“Have they chosen Muriel Storm for substitute?” she inquired, her voice expressing her mingled surprise and amazement. “They must be courting defeat.”
“But how can she play at all?” This from Adelaine Stuart. “I have never seen her practicing on these courts and surely before she came she had no opportunity to learn.”
Marianne shrugged her shoulders. “Let us rejoice that they have chosen her, although, of course, they may not need a substitute; but if they do, it will mean an easy victory for us.”
“More honor, though, if we had good players to defeat, I should think,” Phyllis Dexter ventured.
But there was no time for further conversation as Miss Widdemere, who was to keep score, had arrived and was calling the names of the first four who were to take their places and select the server.
Five games were to be played and the side winning three out of five would be proclaimed champion.
Although Jane Wiggin was a fairly good player, she had not practiced with Catherine and was greatly handicapped thereby and the opponents easily won the first game. Marianne scarcely noticed when her few admirers among the watchers clapped and shouted. The victory had been too easy to be flattering, she thought.
The next game was played by Gladys and Faith on one side and by two of Marianne’s friends on the other and there was far more enthusiasm among the spectators when Catherine’s side won a victory.
Jane Wiggin, knowing that it was her poor teamwork that had lost the first game, sincerely wished that she had not agreed to play at all; but it was too late to withdraw. Though she did her best and though it was a hard-fought game, Catherine’s side lost. The score stood two games for Marianne and one for Catherine.
Joy made her way among the onlookers and sat on the substitute’s bench next to Muriel. “Oh, if only I had my bloomers on,” she said in a low voice. “I would take Jane’s place even if I had to stay in bed for a week. But in these long skirts I just couldn’t run, so there is no use trying.”
As she spoke, she glanced at the face of her friend and saw that she was intently watching every play being made by Gladys and Faith, who, as before, upheld the honor of their side and again won.
Two games for each side; but, of course, since Jane was to play in the fifth, Catherine’s group had no hope of final victory.
Jane knew this as well as did the others and she was so nervous when she took her place on the court that she could barely hold her racket. It was her turn to serve and she batted so blindly that the ball fell far afield. Then, to the surprise of the onlookers, she burst into tears and ran from the court and toward the school as fast as she could go. For a moment Catherine was panic-stricken; but what was happening?
Muriel had leaped to the court that had been so unexpectedly deserted by Jane and had served the ball without observing the sarcastic smile of her French opponent. Marianne returned the serve with a volley, expecting to see the island girl miss; but, instead, the ball was returned with that smash stroke which had made Joy’s playing famous. Marianne did her swiftest running but before she reached the spot the ball had fallen dead and did not bounce.
Amazed, the French girl’s brows contracted and, for the next few moments, she did her very best playing; but time after time Muriel smashed the ball over the net. If Marianne was close, then the ball fell back of her; if she was on the outer edge of the court, then the ball just cleared the net.
The spectators crowded near. There was a breathless interest. What could it mean? No one at High Cliffs knew the stroke except Joy Kiersey. Suddenly a light dawned upon Faith. Joy had taught Muriel her trick stroke and that was why she had been so disappointed when Jane Wiggin had been asked to play.
A shout arose from the onlookers and there was a sudden rush toward the island girl and everyone was congratulating her.
Muriel had won the game, and once more Marianne had been defeated by “une burgeoise.”
CHAPTER XXXII.
WAINWATER CASTLE
On the day that Muriel was winning the tennis tournament, Gene Beavers sat in the library of their home on the outskirts of London, thinking “Oh, to be near the Hudson now that Indian summer is there.”
It was a glorious morning and the lad was tempted to go for a longer stroll than usual when his sister burst in with, “Oh, Gene, something wonderful has happened! You couldn’t guess what, not in a thousand years.”
“Well, since I’m not an Egyptian mummy, there isn’t much use trying,” was the smiling response; but his thought was, “How I wish it were that Muriel Storm has come to England.”
“Mother is overjoyed,” Helen was saying. “It’s the one thing for which she has been longing and yearning ever since we came, and perhaps for that very reason she has wished it into existence. Now can you guess?”
The lad shook his head. “I’m not much good at riddles, Sis,” he confessed. “What is it?”
“An invitation!” was the triumphant announcement as Helen brought the hand which had been back of her to the front and held high a white envelope which bore a crest.
Gene sank down in a comfortable armchair, the interest fading from his face. “Is that all?” he asked. “A stupid bore, I would call it. How you women folk can be so enthusiastic about invitations to receptions and teas is more than I can understand.”
His sister sat on an arm of his chair. “But, Gene,” she said, “you have often wished that you might stroll around in those park-like grounds of the Wainwater estate.”
The lad again assumed an expression of interest. “I’ll agree to that,” he declared. “They are wonderfully alluring. Several times, when I have been out for a stroll, I have gone down the Wainwater Road and have paused at the least-frequented gate in the high hedge to gaze in among the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fawn, and yesterday I saw one drinking from the stream. Such a graceful, beautiful creature, and it looked up at me, not at all afraid.”
“I know that gate,” Helen said. “I stood there a moment only yesterday, but what I especially admired was the picturesque view one gets of the castle-like home which is at least a quarter of a mile back from the road, among the great old trees. I have read about such places, with galleries where ancestral paintings are hung, and I’d just love to see the inside of one.”
“You probably will never have the opportunity,” her brother began; but he was interrupted with: “Have you already forgotten this wonderful invitation?” Helen again held up the crested envelope.
“But you haven’t told me to what or by whom you are invited,” the lad replied.
“We, all of us, are invited to Wainwater Castle by the elderly Countess herself, and the invitation was obtained by Monsieur Carnot.” Then, noting the slight frown, she hurried on to explain: “You know, dear, that the Viscount of Wainwater really controls the business, the American interest of which our father represents, but it seems that his honorable lordship, if that is what he is called, is more interested in the arts, and leaves the direction of matters financial to Monsieur Carnot.”
Then, noting that Gene had turned away and was looking rather listlessly out of the window, his sister added: “Brother, dear, doesn’t anything interest you any more? I did so hope that you would be glad to visit this beautiful estate with mother and me. Father and Monsieur Carnot will be unable to attend, and we counted upon you to escort us.”
The lad looked up with a sudden brightening smile. Rising, he slipped an arm about the girl as he said lovingly: “Your brother isn’t much of a social ornament, but he ought to be glad, indeed, that his mother and sister really want his companionship.” The girl looked pityingly into the pale face that had been tanned and ruddy with health on that long ago day when she had visited him on Windy Island.
Impulsively, she took both his hands. “Brother,” she said, “it was wrong of mother to make you leave America just when you were well again and all because you were enjoying the friendship of a lighthouse-keeper and his grand-daughter. Some day I shall tell mother the truth, which is that you and I both hate, hate, HATE all this catering to and aping after the English nobility.” Then, inconsistently, she added: “Nevertheless, I am curious to see the inside of the Wainwater mansion. However, if an English nobleman asks me to marry him, I shall reply that I prefer an American.”
This last was called merrily over her shoulder as she left her brother, who, though amused, heartily endorsed her sentiment.
Mrs. Beavers, who had been greatly elated by the invitation which she had received from the Countess of Wainwater, obtained all the information she believed they would require. Being Americans, they, of course, did not know the correct way of addressing an elderly countess and her middle-aged son, the viscount. They had a private rehearsal the evening before the great event, which amused the young people. “Mumsie,” Helen said gleefully, “this reminds me of ‘The Birds’ Christmas Carol,’ when those adorable Irish children were drilled in manners before attending a dinner party. Then to give them a proper sense of family pride, didn’t their mother say, ‘And don’t forget that your father was a policeman’?”
Mrs. Beavers did not smile. “Helen, dear, it is very important that we know the proper thing to do and say on all occasions,” was her only reply.
The next afternoon, as they were being driven to the castle-like Wainwater home, Mrs. Beavers looked admiringly at Helen and Gene. Any mother, even a countess, might be proud of them, she assured herself.
However, being Americans, they did not seem to be as greatly impressed with the fact that they were to visit a peer of the realm as this particular mother might wish.
Helen had been just as elated when she was on the way to see an old historical ruin, and as for Gene Mrs. Beavers glanced at him apprehensively. He did not seem to be even thinking of the honor which had been conferred upon them. Indeed, whenever his mother beheld that far-away, dreamy expression in his eyes, she feared that he was thinking of that “dreadful girl, the lighthouse-keeper’s grand-daughter,” nor was she wrong. At that moment Gene was wondering what Muriel might be doing and resolved to write her upon his return.
Notwithstanding the fact that it was a glorious, golden afternoon in October, the windows of the castle were darkened and the salon within was brilliantly lighted and thronged with fashionably dressed gentry from the countryside and from London when the arrival of the Beavers was announced. The elderly countess, as Gene afterwards said, would be just his ideal of a lovable grandmother if she could be transplanted to a New England fireplace and away from so much grandness.
There was, indeed, an amused twinkle in the sweet gray-blue eyes of the little old lady who, during the first hour, sat enthroned, not being strong enough to stand and receive.
Gene was idly watching the colorful scene about him, feeling weary indeed and almost stifled with the fragrance of flowers and perfumes, when he felt rather than saw that the countess was watching him. Glancing toward her, he found that he had been right, for she was beckoning to him.
Quickly the lad went to her side, and in her kind, grandmotherly way she said: “Dear boy, you look very tired. Why not go out in the park for a while? Perhaps you will find there my son. He will be glad to meet you. Follow the stream to a cabin.”
Gene thanked the dear little old lady for her suggestion and after telling his mother and sister his plan, he went out. He soon forgot the brilliantly lighted salon in his joy at being alone once again with nature. He had been ill so long that as he looked back over the days and months they seemed to stretch behind him illimitably and grey, except where they were made golden by his dreams of Muriel.
Dear, brave, wonderful Muriel! Gene knew now all that had happened; the death of Captain Ezra, the lighthouse-keeper, who had been so kind to him, and about the fashionable boarding school to which Doctor Lem had sent his protege.
The kindly physician had received a note from Gene one day stating that since he never heard from Muriel he would greatly appreciate it if, from time to time, he would write and tell him of the island girl.
It had not been hard for the older man to read between the lines and he had replied at once, telling all that had happened to Muriel.
But only the pleasant part of the letter from Doctor Lem was being recalled by the lad as he followed the fern-tangled banks of a stream that wound its picturesque way deeper and deeper into the wooded park. Suddenly Gene paused. Surely he heard the bird-like notes of a flute. He peered among the trees, but saw no one. Then, as he advanced, the music was hushed and he decided that, perhaps, it had been the song of a hermit thrush. There was a dense growth of evergreen trees just ahead of him. They crowded so close to the edge of the water that the lad paused, thinking that he would better go back, but, noticing a wet, mossy rock near, he stepped out upon it, and, to his delight, saw just beyond the pines the rustic cabin of which the countess had spoken.
Eager and interested, the lad half ran up the path, soft with pine needles, and tapped upon the door, wondering if the cabin were deserted. “Come in,” a deep voice called.
Gene opened the door and entered a large, square, rustic room which seemed to be both a hunting lodge and a den. A man whose face seemed too young for its crowning of grey was lounging in a deep, comfortable chair in front of a wide fireplace on which a log was burning. He wore a crimson velvet jacket and he was reading. Other books and magazines were placed on a low table near. Too, there was a flute, the notes of which Gene had heard.
The man smiled a welcome. “American?” he inquired. Gene said that he was. “Good!” motioning to a chair beyond the hearth.
“Lost?” was the next question. “No, sent,” the lad replied, then seated himself and told how he chanced to be there.
“My lady mother must have thought that you and I would like to know each other,” the man said. “You are the son of our American representative?”
“Yes, Eugene Beavers also is the name of my father.”
“Fine man! Then, you’ve been ill?”
“A long time. Breakdown in college.”
“Over-study or over-athletics?” The older man asked this with a quizzical smile.
“Both perhaps. Neglected books while training for the big game, then broke down cramming for midwinter exams.”
“Like London?”
“No, I think it’s beastly.”
The Englishman laughed. “That doesn’t sound American. What place do you like better?”
“Tunkett, Massachusetts.” Then it was the turn of the lad to laugh. “That place, of course, means nothing to you. It isn’t even on the map. Just a fishing hamlet.”
The viscount leaned forward and with the iron tongs moved the position of the log that it might burn faster.
His next remark astonished the lad, who thought he never had met a man he liked better.
“Come over here, Gene Beavers, and spend a week with me; or, better still, we might take a hiking trip through Scotland.”
“Honest Injun?” The lad’s face glowed eagerly, boyishly.
“Honest Injun.”
Thus was begun a friendship between the Viscount of Wainwater and Gene Beavers. People marveled at it, for, though many sought the friendship of the viscount, few were permitted to enter the seclusion in which he chose to live.
