Kitabı oku: «Rilla of the Lighthouse», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
MURIEL VISITS WINDY ISLAND
Uncle Barney had done a good deal of thinking since he had returned to his cabin in the sand dunes. He was recalling a visit he had received from Captain Ezra Bassett a short time before he set sail for Ireland. It was then that Muriel’s grand-dad had told him all that he knew of the girl’s own father, and at the end of the story he had said: “If anything happens to me, Barney, like as not Rilla’s own dad would be the right one for her to go to. You can allays reach him by writin’ to the address that’s in the little iron box whar the tools ’r’ kept for fixin’ the light.”
How well Barney remembered that little iron box. It had been on many a sea voyage when Ezra had been in command of the two-masted schooner The Stormy Petrel, and the faithful Irishman had been first mate.
Then, when the older man had settled on Windy Island, Barney had often seen the box in the small closet at the top of the tower where the oil can, tools and cleaning rags were kept.
What ought he to do about it? he ruminated as he sat near his glowing stove on the day following Muriel’s visit and smoked pipe after pipe in thoughtful silence.
Ought he to tell the girl, and yet, now that the tower was but a fallen heap of stones, would it be possible for them to find the little iron box?
“It’s colleen herself as shall do the decidin’,” he at last determined. Rising, he put on his heavy coat, cap and the scarlet muffler that Molly had knitted for him and telling his good wife that he might not be back until late, he started walking toward the home of Doctor Winslow.
Muriel was out on the veranda sweeping away the light snow that had fallen in the night. “Top o’ the morning to you, Uncle Barney,” she called as she waved the broom. “Have you come to invite me to take a cruise with you?”
The old man smiled up at her as he ascended the steps, and yet, so well did the girl know him, that she at once sensed that something was troubling him. However, it was in his usual cheerful manner that he replied:
“It’s a mind reader that you are, Rilly gal, for ’twas that very thing I was after thinkin’. I cal’lated I’d cruise over to Windy Island, this mornin’ and I was hopin’ as how you’d like to go along as crew.”
There were sudden tears in the hazel eyes of the girl as she held the old man’s warmly mittened hand in a firm clasp.
“Uncle Barney,” she said with a suspicion of a sob in her voice, “I’d rather be goin’ there for the first time with you than with anyone else in all the world, perhaps because my grand-dad loved you just as he would had you been his brother.”
“I know, I know,” the kind-hearted Irishman assured her. Then to hide his own emotion he hurried on to say: “Bundle up warm, Rilly gal, for though ’tis sunny, the air is powerful nippin’. I reckon you’d better be tellin’ your folks as how you may be late comin’ back to sort o’ get ’em out of the notion o’ worryin’. Tell ’em yer ol’ Uncle Barney’ll land you in the home port safe an’ sound along about sunset.”
Although Muriel was surprised to hear that they might remain so long on Windy Island, she made no comment but skipped into the house to put on her wraps and tell Miss Gordon of the planned voyage. Uncle Barney had not said that he wished only Muriel to accompany him, but the girl was sure that the captain had something that he wished to say to her alone. Perhaps her grand-dad had asked him to sometime tell her about the marriage of her girl-mother. How she hoped this might be so. But of her thoughts Muriel said nothing as they tramped together out on the snow-covered wharf near which the captain’s dory was anchored.
It was not until they were sailing in the smoother waters on the sheltered side of the island that Ezra Bassett’s old friend told the girl he had so loved why he had brought her that day to visit the ruined lighthouse.
“Uncle Barney,” the girl looked across at him hopefully, eagerly, “won’t you be telling me all that you know about my girl-mother and my father.”
“Well, colleen dearie, thar ain’t much to tell. Your pa, it ’peared like to us as saw him, was a poor artist fellow as came one summer to this here coast to make pictures. Yer ma, darlin’, was jest like yo’ are now; the two of yo’ couldn’t be told apart. That artist fellow met up wi’ her in the store, Mrs. Sol tol’ me, an’ nothin’ would do arter that but he must make a paintin’ of that other Rilla a-settin’ up on the rocks. He was mighty takin’ in his ways, I’ll say that for him, an’ upstandin’, too. I’d a-sworn from the little I saw of him that he’d be a square dealer, but like be I was wrong, for when your grand-dad got wind of him courtin’ his gal, fer that’s what it had come to by the end of the summer, ol’ Ezra tol’ him to clear out. Yo’re ma pleaded pitiful-like, but yo’ know that look yer grand-dad used to get when he was sot, an’ sot hard. That’s the way he looked then. Wall, the next day that artist fellow was gone, but so, too, was the gal ol’ Ezra Bassett had set sech a store by.” The kindly Irishman dreaded telling the rest of the story as it reflected no credit to the honor of the lighthouse-keeper and he was glad indeed to find that the dock had been reached. Nor did the girl question him.
Even Captain Barney did not know how hard it was for Muriel to climb the snow-covered flight of steps that led to the only home her girlhood had ever known, and then, when the top was reached, to see that home lying one rock heaped upon another, the whole jagged mass covered with a sparkling white blanket.
“The little iron box that you were telling me about, Uncle Barney,” Rilla began as she smiled bravely up at her companion, “since it was kept near the lamp, don’t you think that in falling they would lie near each other?”
The old man nodded. “I reckon so,” he replied, “an’ yet thar’s no tellin’. A reg’lar tornado ’twas a-racin’ along the coast that day, and what with the lightnin’ hitting the tower and the wind twistin’ it, things that fell might o’ got purty much scattered about, seems like.”
Going to the old shed at the foot of the steps, the captain procured shovels and a broom and together they began to remove the snow from the rocks that were nearest.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” the girl declared when they had worked for an hour and had not discovered the great lamp which for so many years had swung its circling light over the darkened sea.
“Seems powerful quare to me whar that big lantern can be,” the old man said at last, as he leaned on the handle of his shovel to rest. “’Pears like it ought’ve fallen on top o’ the heap, bein’ as it was the highest up; but ’tisn’t here, sure sartin.”
Muriel, standing on the uncovered rocks, looked down at him. “Uncle Barney,” she said, “do you suppose that someone has carried the lamp away to sell for old iron?”
The captain shook his head. “No, Rilly gal, I reckon not. It’s government property and no one’d be likely to cart it away.”
At noon they went down to the little beach shed. The Irishman made a fire in the rusty old stove and they sat near, appreciating its warmth while they ate the good lunch that Molly had prepared.
“Oh, Uncle Barney,” the girl exclaimed half an hour later, “it’s me as is goin’ to take the crumbs and left-over bits to the top of the cliff and see if I can coax the seagulls from the caves; that is, if they are there.”
It was well that Brazilla Mullet had insisted that the girl wear her thick woolen leggins, for she had to wade through deep, unbroken drifts of snow to reach the spot where so often she had stood to feed her bird friends; but though she called and called, the gulls that in former winters had appeared from the warm caves in the rocks did not respond; not even the lone pelican which she had hoped would come.
Almost sadly the girl was turning away when she chanced to look over the steep cliff and there, half way down, firmly wedged between an outjutting ledge and a small twisted pine, she saw something that sent her leaping back toward the fallen tower.
“Uncle Barney,” she called excitedly. “Come quick! I’ve found it! I’ve found the lamp!”
The old Irishman was soon at her side. Rilla looked up with tears in her eyes as she said: “Poor thing, how forlorn it looks with the glass broken and the sides crushed in.” The old man held fast to the girl, for she was perilously near the snow-hidden edge of the cliff.
“I reckon we’d better not try to go down to it,” he said, after a moment of silent observation. “Thar’s nothin’ to hold on to till ye get to that ledge an’ it’s plain to see that the box isn’t alongside o’ the lamp. Howsome-ever, it bears out my notion that things was hurled hither and yon when the tower fell so thar’s no tellin’ whar the little box landed.”
Then, drawing the girl back to a place of greater safety, he continued, as he glanced at the sky: “It’s gettin’ toward midafternoon, colleen, an’ those blizzardy lookin’ clouds over on the horizon ar’ spreadin’ fast. I reckon as how we’d better put off huntin’ for the box till arter thar’s been a thaw; then, likie’s not, we’ll find it easy when the snow’s gone.”
“All right, Uncle Barney,” the girl replied. “We will do just as you think best, but how I do wish that, just for a moment, I might visit my dear old Treasure Cave. Don’t you suppose that if we went along the beach I might be able to climb up to it? I’ve been there many a time in winter and I know just where my steps are even under the snow.”
The girl’s eyes were so glowingly eager that the old man could not refuse. “Wall, wall, Rilly gal,” he said, “I reckon we’d have time to poke around a while longer if ’twould be pleasin’ to you. The storm’s likely to hold off till nigh dark.”
“Oh, thank you, Uncle Barney.” Muriel caught the old man’s mittened hand and led him along at a merry pace, breaking a path in the snow just ahead of him. At last they reached the very spot where many months before Muriel had stood when she had beheld a city lad for the first time.
“D’ye ever hear from Gene Beavers nowadays?” the captain asked when Rilla recalled to him the incident of which she had been thinking.
“Indeed I do, and, oh, Uncle Barney, such wonderful times as Gene is having. He has a new friend in England whom he calls Viscount of Wainwater.”
The old man gazed at his companion in uncomprehending amazement.
“The Viscount of Wainwater is it? Rilly, can I be hearin’ right? Why, gal, he’s as big a man as thar is in all England barrin’ the king himself. He’s what folks call a philanthropist, though thar’s them as calls him an Irish sympathizer; but ’tisn’t the Irish only that he’s benefactin’, but all as are down-trodden. Why, Rilly, he ’twas that bought a whole township over in Connaught and tore down the mud huts and had decent little cabins built for the old folks to be livin’ in. Many’s the time he’s ridden by on that han’some brown horse of his an’ stopped at me mither’s door for a bit of refreshment an’ it was me ol’ mither that couldn’t talk of anything for days but of how foine a gintleman was the Viscount of Wainwater. It’s curious now, ain’t it, that Gene Beavers is arter knowin’ him. It sartin is an honor to be a friend of the viscount.”
As the captain talked, Muriel, surefooted on the rocky paths that she had followed since childhood, led him down to the beach, where the sand had been swept clear of snow by the prevailing winds. They walked around the island and stood just beneath the cave to which Muriel had carried every little treasure that had been given her by her few friends or that had been tossed high on the beach by the sea. The trail looked very steep and slippery to the old man. “Rilla gal,” he said, “I reckon I’ll stay here a bit and he waitin’ for ye while ye do yer explorin’.”
The girl, her cheeks rosy, her eyes glowing, laughed back at him over her shoulder, for she was already half way up the trail.
When Muriel reached the shelving rock in front of her cave she turned and waved to the old man, who stood watching far below, then stooping, she disappeared.
To her amazement, she found that the place was flooded with light. The reason she quickly discerned. Great rocks, hurled from the falling tower, had crashed through the roof of the cave and were piled high on its floor. Eagerly the girl began to search among them for the box.
When fifteen minutes had passed and she did not reappear, the old captain became anxious and climbed to the opening.
“Wall, I’ll be gigger-switched!” he exclaimed, “if here ain’t the door to the closet whar the tools for the big lamp was kept.”
Muriel, with a delighted cry, sprang toward him, but stumbled over some small hard object which had been almost imbedded in crumbled sandstone.
It was the long-sought little iron box, but it was locked.
The old man was as excited as the girl. He took the small box which Muriel lifted toward him and examined it. “The lock don’t matter,” he replied. “Thar’s tools in the cabin that’ll open it soon enough. Come now, ’twon’t do to be delayin’ any longer. Can’t ye hear the threatenin’ sound the wind is makin’? It’s moanin’ into the cave here like a graveyard full of ghosts let loose.”
When they were again on the beach the girl saw that the captain was indeed a weather prophet, for the leaden-grey clouds were being hurled toward them by a wind that was momentarily increasing in velocity. Luckily it came from over the sea and the water between the island and Tunkett would still be sheltered.
They were soon in the dory scudding toward the home port, but barely had they landed when the snow began to fall so thick and fast that they could scarcely see each other.
The wind from the sea fairly blew them up the street toward the home of Doctor Winslow. For a moment the old Irishman drew the girl under the shelter of an evergreen tree while he said hurriedly:
“Rilla gal, I reckon ’twould be best if I sent the letter, bein’ as that was yer grand-dad’s wish, an’, like’s not, ye’d better not be mentionin’ it to anyone yet fer a spell, not knowin’ – ” The old man paused. He did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings by saying that after all these years her own father might not care to claim his daughter.
“You are right, Uncle Barney,” was the reply. “I’ll not say a word, but, oh, how I do, do hope that my own father will love me.”
That evening the little iron box was opened, the address found and Molly, who at one time had been a school mistress in Connaught, penned the letter that was sent speeding to its destination on the midnight train.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A LETTER FROM GENE
When Muriel entered the house she found awaiting her a letter from Gene, and strange indeed was the postmark, for with his good friend, the Viscount of Wainwater, the lad was traveling in foreign lands.
There were several sheets of thin paper and these were covered with such fine handwriting that it took the girl much longer than usual to decipher them.
She retired to the doctor’s den directly after the evening meal, and having made a fire on the hearth, she curled up in a big, comfortable chair near the reading table, for she felt that she wanted to be alone while she had this visit with the far-away lad who called himself her brother-friend.
The first part of the epistle was devoted to descriptions of their travels and adventures.
Then came some personal news items, the most astonishing of these being that Monsieur Carnot had received a cablegram informing him that Marianne was leaving High Cliffs Seminary at once and would return to France to complete her education. Her reason for this unexpected action was not given.
Another page was devoted to the viscount. “Sister-friend,” Gene had written, “how I do hope that some day you may meet this wonderful man whose conversation is to me more delightful than any book I have ever read, whose considerate thoughtfulness of all whom we meet, especially those who are poor or in trouble, makes him more a nobleman than does his title.
“I have saved until the close of this long, rambling letter a bit of news that will rejoice your heart, even as it did mine. You will recall that you told me that I might show your poem, ‘The Lonely Pelican,’ to my poet-friend, Wayne, but that you would rather that I did not tell him about yourself, although why you made the request I am sure I cannot guess. Muriel, I don’t want you ever to be ashamed of who you are, for though your parents were simple fisherfolk, you are a princess among girls. I am as proud to know you as I am to know the Viscount of Wainwater. This was his comment when he finished reading your little poem: ‘Gene, I would be glad had I written that. It is a lovely thing.’
“Muriel, some day may I tell him about you; how your little girlhood was spent cradled out there on Windy Island among the wild sea waves, companioned by that splendid old man who was one of nature’s truest noblemen, and with only birds and Shags for playmates? He will better understand your poem. Address your next letter to Cairo, care of the American Consul.”
For a long time Muriel sat curled up in that deep cushioned chair gazing into the fire and dreaming dreams. How strange, how unreal, that she, the daughter of a long line of seafaring people, should be the friend of a lad who was the chosen comrade of a viscount, and yet Gene had spoken truly, no man could be more noble than her own grandfather.
Then came a tap on the closed door and the pleasant voice of Miss Gordon: “Nine o’clock, dear. You know our resolution – to retire at that hour.” Instantly Muriel was on her feet, rebuking herself for having left Miss Gordon alone. Opening the door, she said: “Won’t you come in? It won’t matter, will it, if we stay up a little later this evening? I would like you to read this wonderful letter from Gene Beavers.”
And so it was that Miss Gordon was ensconced in the big comfortable chair and with Muriel on a stool at her feet, the older woman read the letter aloud. “What a privilege it is for your friend Gene to have the companionship of that prince among men. I have often greatly admired the verses of Wayne Waters, and, dear – ” The older woman paused and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
As she had hesitated, Muriel glanced up questioningly. “I had thought that I would not tell you,” Miss Gordon continued, “but now I believe that I will. Before we left High Cliffs, Miss Humphrey found a poem in a new magazine, the title of which was ‘The Moor in Winter.’”
“Oh, Miss Gordon, then you have found out about Marianne and – ”
“You knew all the time, Muriel, and did not tell me?” The girl bowed her head. “Yes. Gene had written telling me about that poem.” Suddenly looking up, she inquired: “Is that why Marianne is leaving High Cliffs?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “Miss Humphrey is acting principal during my absence and she has expelled the young plagiarist.”
CHAPTER XL.
JOY AND FAITH VISIT TUNKETT
The blinding snowstorm which had started the night before, as Muriel and Captain Barney had returned from Windy Island, increased in fury during the night and even Muriel did not care to battle through the elements the next day to visit the cabins on the dunes. She indeed was curious to see the address to which the letter was to be sent and she looked eagerly out at the storm, wondering how long it would last.
Miss Gordon was so interested in her book that she did not notice Muriel’s suppressed excitement. The girl could think of nothing but the letter and its possible reception by the Mr. Storm, who, of course, was her father.
What if this unknown father might prove to be someone for whom she could not care? But she put that thought away from her. Of course she would dearly love the man whom her girl-mother had loved and trusted.
Then she wondered how far the letter would have to travel to reach him and how long a time would elapse before she would have a reply. Would that reply bid her go to another part of America to live?
It was midmorning when the girl’s revery was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Skipping to the doctor’s study, she lifted the receiver and upon hearing the voice at the other end her face brightened.
“Oh, Uncle Lem, I’m so glad you were able to get away. Yes, I’ll send Jabez right down to the station. You want Brazilla to make a double quantity of clam chowder. Why, Uncle Lem, how hungry you must be. All right, I’ll tell her. Good-bye.”
“Oh, isn’t that the jolliest!” Muriel beamed at Miss Gordon, whose book had been dropped to her lap when she learned that Doctor Winslow was in town. Into the kitchen the girl skipped when Jabez had been notified.
“What can I do to help?” Rilla asked, and Brazilla replied: “Well, maybe you’d better fetch out the best cloth and set the table extra fine. I reckon another log on the hearth would make the dinin’-room more cheerful like. Then thar’s a geranium on the south window sill that blossomed this morning. You might put that in the middle.”
“Put it in the middle of the fire?” the girl asked merrily. Then she whirled about and kissed the astonished housekeeper on the forehead.
“Oh, Brazilla,” she exclaimed, “please don’t mind my nonsense. I’m so excited about something that I can’t tell yet that I don’t know what I am about.”
“Wall, I should say, Rilly, that suthin’ onusual must a-gone to yer head. You don’t act at all natural, an’ yer cheeks are so red.”
Then, anxiously, the good woman added: “You don’t feel feverish, do you?”
“No, Brazilla. Honest Injun, I’m all right. Now I’ll get busy.”
The table was all set, and most attractive it looked when the joyous ringing of sleighbells was heard in the drive.
Muriel waited until she heard a stamping of feet on the front porch, then she threw open the door and uttered a cry of joy, for with the good doctor were her two best friends.
“Oh, Joy! Faith! What a wonderful surprise!” In spite of their snowy garments she hugged them both, then whirling and shaking a finger at the doctor, she accused: “Now I know why you pretended to be so ravenously hungry and ordered a double portion of clam chowder.”
“Guilty!” The doctor kissed his glowing-eyed ward; then, leaving the girls with their hostess, he went into the living-room in search of Miss Gordon. He found her standing by the fireplace.
“Helen,” he said impulsively as he advanced toward her, “you can’t know what it means to me to find you waiting to welcome me by my own hearth-side which for so many years has been deserted and lonely; so lonely, Helen, since mother left.”
Just why there were tears in the sweet grey eyes that were lifted to him Miss Gordon could not have told, for the realization had come to them both that this was truly a moment for rejoicing; but all that the little woman said was, “I’ve been lonely, too, Lemuel.”
Just at that moment into the room danced Muriel, leading the two laughing girls, whose heavy wraps had been removed.
The older woman turned to greet them and the physician went to his own room to prepare for his evening meal.
“Isn’t this just like a party?” Rilla exclaimed half an hour later when they were seated about the long table. “Oh, girls, I had been hoping that you would come for a week-end, as you had promised, but how did you happen to be with Uncle Lem?”
“We met Doctor Winslow in the station at New York and when we told him that we were coming to stay at the inn in Tunkett for a few days he declared that we must be your guests in his home, and, of course, we were only too glad to accept.”
Many times during the evening repast the physician’s eyes wandered to the face of his ward. Her cheeks were glowing, almost feverishly, and the light in her eyes was unnatural and her excited chatter, he was sure, was not entirely because of the unexpected arrival of her friends.
When they were leaving the table, he drew her aside, saying, “Muriel, I would like to see you in my study.”
The girl excused herself and accompanied him. As soon as the door was closed, the physician turned and placed his cool hand on her cheeks and brow. He said: “Little girl, are you ill or has something happened that is troubling you?”
To his great surprise Muriel threw her arms about his neck and began to sob.
“No, Uncle Lem, nothing troubles me; that is, it doesn’t yet. Uncle Barney has written a letter to my own father to tell him about me, and, oh, Uncle Lem, what if he should not care for me? Every night since I was little I’ve prayed for that dear father who never came for me, and I’ve prayed God to send him to me some time because my girl-mother so loved him; but now that at last he is to know about me I am so afraid that he will not want me.”
This, then, had been the real cause of her feverish excitement.
The physician drew Muriel down beside him upon a couch and asked her to tell all that had happened. He had never known about the address in the little iron box, for although he had been a close friend of Ezra Bassett’s in their boyhood, the physician had been away much of the time in later years.
“Dear,” he said comfortingly, “do not be fearful. The little that I have heard of your artist father leads me to believe that, although evidently poor, he was possessed of high ideals and was very talented. I cannot believe that he has purposely neglected you all of these years. Now dry your tears and go back to your friends with a happy heart and be sure that the tender love you have given your father is now to be returned to you.”
When the girl had left him, the physician bent his head on his hands. And so he was to lose Muriel. One by one those who were dear to him had left him and in his old age he was to be alone, for it would be presumptuous on his part to ask so lovely a woman as Miss Gordon to share the little he had to offer. But at that moment he recalled the tears in the grey eyes and the break in the voice that had said, “I, too, have been lonely.”
Rising, he thought, “I will go to Helen and ask her if she cares to share my home.”
