Kitabı oku: «Rilla of the Lighthouse», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XV.
THREE MORE GIRLS
Upon reaching Windy Island that cold, grey, late afternoon, Muriel went at once to her Treasure Cave to procure the primer which her Uncle Lem had given her, and by the aid of which she could read other books and letters containing the simplest words. This she carried to her room above the kitchen adjoining the lighthouse. But it was not until the following morning, when her tasks were finished, that she was able to slip away to decipher the message from Gene. A drizzling rain was keeping them both indoors. The old captain, never content when he was idle, had brought to the warm kitchen a net that he was mending.
“I’m getting strong by the day,” the little letter told the girl, “and the hope of seeing you very soon again, Muriel, good friend, helps me more than anything else.”
What would the girls in his home set have thought could they have seen that letter which had been written in the greatest sincerity, for with none of them did Gene have a serious friendship. They knew him merely as the good-looking, always good-natured brother of their favorite, Helen Beavers, with whom they bantered merrily. Gene liked them all well enough, but they wearied him with their constant chatter of tennis tournaments and teas, and their ceaseless laughter. No wonder that his pal, David Davison, had often said that most girls seemed to be afflicted with “giggleitis,” but not so Muriel.
As Gene sat alone hour after hour in a hospital, the windows of which looked out across the Hudson, he thought often of the sweet seriousness of the truly beautiful face of his “storm maiden.” Those hazel eyes had looked into his very soul, and how thankful he was that he had nothing in that soul that he wished to conceal.
She had laughed, now and then, spontaneously, joyfully, but she was very different from the modern girl who laughed continually because she thought it becoming. He couldn’t conceive of Muriel doing anything merely to gain admiration.
“She’s a bully good pal, that’s what; so is sis; but there aren’t many girls like those two,” was his conclusion.
Gene had still another month of enforced vacation, as the doctor had declared that he would not permit him to return to college until after the holidays. Under other circumstances the lad would have fretted about this, but as it was he knew that he was actually eager to spend at least the larger part of that month in Tunkett.
But Gene was not left long alone, for on the very first Saturday after his arrival in the New York hospital, his sister Helen and two of her best friends from the boarding school farther up the Hudson appeared unexpectedly to visit him.
Gladys Goodsell and Faith Morley were attractive maidens, clad in fashionably tailored suits, with muffs to keep their gloved hands warm, for, in spite of the dazzling brightness of the day, the air was stingingly cold.
“Oh, brother,” Helen protested when she was told that as soon as he was stronger he was going back to Tunkett, “what can you see in that outlandish village?” Then to her friends she added: “I went down there one week-end with Doctor Winslow, who is an old friend of father’s, but I can assure you that I shall never go again, that is, not out of season. Such queer people as I saw! Honestly, I had to pinch myself to be sure that I hadn’t stepped into one of Joseph Lincoln’s stories, and, as for understanding what the natives said, well, I just couldn’t.”
“Maybe you didn’t try very hard, Sis.” This from the lad who was keeping his new friend a secret in his heart.
“Maybe I didn’t,” was the merry reply, “but if I were going to write a comic story that’s where I’d go for my characters and illustrations. Girls, I do wish you might see the clothes worn by the wives of the fishermen. I am sure the dressmaker who made them must have come over in the ark.”
As Gene listened, lying back among the pillows of his half-reclining-chair, he glanced at the costumes of his fair visitors, then, turning, he looked out toward the Hudson, but it was not the steely blue river that he saw but a girl in a nondescript calico dress with hair wind-blown who was ordering him to leave her island. Looking back at his sister, he said: “You are right, Helen, about the clothes. They are different.”
When at last the girls arose, Helen leaned affectionately over her brother’s reclining-chair. “I don’t know what possesses you to want to go to Tunkett of all places during this coming month.” Then, wheedlingly: “We’re going to have a series of parties at the school just before the holidays, and then there’s to be that annual affair over at West Point. Please reconsider, brother dear. Go down for a week or two if you really think that it will do you good, but I beg of you, do come back for the holiday fun. Now, promise me!”
Gene took the gloved hand of his sister, whom he did indeed love dearly. “I’ll promise to consider, sister mine,” he said; then added: “But I’m hardly in trim for night frolics just now.”
Helen noticed how pale and suddenly weary her brother looked and, stooping, she kissed him tenderly on the forehead as she said softly: “Gene, dear, if you are still in Tunkett, I’ll come down there and spend Christmas with you. Since mother and father are in Europe, you and I will want to be together.”
There was a grateful expression in the lad’s eyes and then he closed them, for he found that he was indeed very tired.
Helen motioned the girls to leave quietly, which they did. What would these three city maidens have thought had they known Gene’s real reason for wishing to return to Tunkett, for surely the village itself held little to attract one in the severe months of early winter?
CHAPTER XVI.
AN EXPECTED SURPRISE
The weather clerk may have been purposely perplexing during those first days of December, for, after having imprisoned Rilla and her grandfather on Windy Island for two long, inclement weeks, they awakened one morning to find a gleaming blue sky that merged on the far horizon with the deeper turquoise of the ocean.
A fortnight had passed since she had received the letter from Gene, and yet he had not come. Because of the rains, Rilla and her grandfather had not again visited the town. There was oil enough in the tank to last another month, nor was there anyone in Tunkett whom they wished to see.
Of course, there had been no mail, for little Sol had sailed close to the island one day and Rilla, hailing him, had asked him to bring the letters if any should arrive. She was expecting two, one from Gene and one from Uncle Barney, and indeed her kind Uncle Lem now and then wrote to her or sent a picture postcard of some interesting building or park in the great city where he resided ten months out of every year.
But the heart of Rilla was filled with a joyful anticipation on that first sparkling day after the storms. As soon as her tasks indoors were finished she called to her shaggy playfellow and, donning her crimson tam and sweater-coat, away she raced toward the outer cliff. There she paused and seemed to be watching for someone or something.
A moment later, her eyes gladdened and she leaned forward eagerly. A flock of gleaming white-winged seagulls appeared and Muriel, taking from her pocket a paper bag, opened it and tossed a fragment of bread into the air. Instantly there was a rush of wings and the birds circled and swooped about her, catching the bits of food as they fell. Now and then a piece dropped far down the cliff and two or three birds would dive through the air, each hoping to be the first to obtain it.
When the bag was empty Muriel turned to find Shags lying some distance back of her, his head low on his paws, his limpid brown eyes watching every move that she made.
Muriel had taught him that he must be very quiet when she was feeding the birds, but when she tossed the crumpled bag out upon the breeze and stood watching it fall into the sea, Shags seemed to know that he need be still no longer. Leaping to his feet, he joined his mistress and then together they raced along on the top of the cliff to the side of the island nearest the town. Again the girl paused, this time shading her eyes as she gazed out over the dancing blue waters.
“Thar’s a sail comin’, Shagsie, ol’ dog,” she said, “but that’s nothin’ onusual. ’Pears like I’m ’spectin’ somethin’ to happen every day, when it used to be nothin’ ever happened, much, that was different. I cal’late that it’s some fisherman late in startin’ for the Outer Ledge. Sam Peters, like as not. He’s powerful shiftless when it comes to gettin’ started.”
But, nevertheless, as the girl sauntered around the top of the cliff and toward the light, she glanced often at the sailboat which seemed to be bearing directly toward Windy Island.
At last her expression of hopeful eagerness changed to one of radiant certainty. “Shagsie,” she cried exultantly, “it is little Sol’s boat, arter all. I reckon he’s fetchin’ some mail. Come on, ol’ dog. Let’s race to the dock.”
The girl and dog ran joyfully along the top of the cliff, but at the top of the steep flight of stairs that led to the beach Rilla paused and looked intently at the boat, which, ahead of a brisk wind, was scudding into port.
“Thar’s some-un else in it,” she said in a low voice, “and – and, oh-o, Shagsie, it is Gene Beavers. He’s come!”
The passenger in little Sol’s sailboat was indeed the lad whom Rilla had expected. When he landed on the small and mossy dock over which the waves often washed he was met by a girl whose beautiful face reminded him of sunrise, so radiant was the expression shining there, but, after little Sol had been paid and told to return promptly at five, the girl’s joy at the arrival of her friend changed to alarm when she noted how very pale he was.
“Yo’ oughtn’t to’ve made the v’yage yet, I reckon,” she said. “Yo’ look all tuckered out. Why did Uncle Lem let yo’ come so soon? Yo’d ought t’ be in bed still, that’s whar yo’d ought t’ be, Gene Beavers.”
“Storm Maiden, stop scolding me! A fine welcome you’re giving me. I thought – I hoped that you might be pleased to see me, and now I’m almost afraid that you’re going to set your dog on me.” This was said teasingly, but it was answered by a reproachful expression in the clear hazel eyes of the girl.
Then, as Captain Ezra, at that moment, appeared at the top of the steep steps, the lad went up two at a time, perhaps with some idea of showing Muriel how strong he really was, but he had overestimated his strength, for when the top was reached the captain’s strong arms were all that kept him from falling.
“Boy,” the old man said, “what in tarnal creation are yo’ cruisin’ around for in rough water wi’ yer mast broken and yer rudder gone?”
The lad looked up from the bench outside of the light to which the captain had led him. “Am I that much of a wreck?” he asked, smiling whimsically. Then he confessed: “I believe I had overestimated my strength. Lying there all day I had no way of telling how weak I really was. I used to get so tired of doing nothing and I thought if only I could get back here where the salt air is so exhilarating maybe I’d get strong sooner, but I’d better be taking the train back tonight, I’m thinking.”
Muriel had gone at once to the kitchen and had a roaring fire in the stove and the kettle on to boil when the old man and the lad entered.
How Gene laughed, a little later, when, having been made comfortable in a high-backed wooden rocker, which had been drawn close to the fire, his “storm maiden” again handed him a thick cup filled with a steaming beverage.
“Muriel,” he said, “you and I seem destined to have morning teas together. Do you recall our first one down on the beach when you threatened to shoot me?”
The girl whirled about and put her finger to her lips; then glancing at her grandfather, whose back was toward them, she said in a low voice: “Don’ tell that. I don’ know what possessed me that day. I reckon I was that angered, bein’ as yo’ wouldn’t take orders.”
“I’ll mind you from now on forever after, Muriel, good friend,” the lad began. Then added with sudden seriousness: “I realize from my recent misadventures that I am not possessed of any too sound a judgment.”
A happy day they had, although Gene spent nearly all of it in the rocker near the fire.
As the clock chimed the hour of four, the lad arose as he said: “I ought to be getting back to town. I would better take the evening train if – ”
Captain Ezra gently pushed the lad down into the chair. “Tarnation sakes!” he exclaimed. “Do yo’ reckon I’d let a friend of Doctor Lem’s leave this craft with underpinnin’s as shaky as yours are? Not by a long sight! Yo’ oughtn’t to’ve come, but, bein’ as yo’re here yo’re goin’ to stay a spell.”
Then the boy confessed. “But Doctor Winslow does not even know that I came. He was to be gone for a few days and so I – I – ”
The old sea captain grunted. “He’ll know soon enough. When little Sol comes, give him a message for his ma to wire back to the big city. Tell Doctor Lem that yo’re goin’ to try Rilla’s nursin’ for a while.”
If there was a twinkle in the grey eyes of the old man, there was also a heaviness in his heart.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BLUE JEWELS
Gene Beavers received a night-letter from Doctor Winslow on the following day, and it contained its full quota of words. The sentiment of it was:
“You scamp, you ought to be well chastised for running away, but, after all, Nurse Rilla may be able to do more for you than your old Uncle Lem, so stay as long as Ezra Bassett will keep you. Learn to tend the light so that you may be of use if the need arises.”
“May I?” Gene asked, looking up eagerly from the letter into the face of the old man, who sat near the stove, cap pulled well down over his eyes, smoking hard on his corncob pipe.
There was a struggle going on in the heart of Captain Ezra. Here was one of those city chaps who for years he had hated on general principles settling down in his home, it would seem, to be a boarder for an indefinite length of time. Then another thought presented itself as the captain noticed how frail the lad really was, and he questioned his own heart: “What if ’twas yo’re boy needin’ some-un to help him get strong, Ezra Bassett? How would yo’ want him to be treated? Turned out and let to drift on the rocks, maybe? I snum – No!”
The old man rose and vigorously shook the ashes down from the stove before he replied: “Sure, yo’ can be larnin’ all thar is to know about the light, I reckon, if ’twould interest yo’, son, but Lem knows I’m jealous of that big lamp. I won’t even let Rilly gal polish up the lens.”
The girl, her face flushed from the heat of the stove, where she stood frying fish and potatoes in a big black skillet, laughed over her shoulder as she said: “I reckon Grand-dad loves the lamp better’n he does me, I reckon he does!” Then it was that the expression of infinite tenderness which Gene had noticed before appeared in the eyes of the old man as he replied earnestly: “Thar’s nothin’ this world holds that I love better’n you, fust mate”; then he added, in another tone, “An’, you rascal, you know it.”
Gene slept on a cot in the kitchen, and as the days passed his strength rapidly returned. The weather continued sunny and bracing and although it was nearing the holiday season the midwinter blizzards had not arrived.
Muriel had told the lad all about the treasure box in her cave. A week after the arrival of the boy on Windy Island they were climbing about on the cliffs when they found themselves near the small opening to the cave. “Come on in. I’ll show yo’ the box,” Rilla said.
Gene, really curious concerning the treasure that had been given up by the sea, went in and watched with interest as the girl lifted the mirror-lined cover of what he recognized to be a water-tight steamer trunk of foreign make.
The sea-green dress, he agreed, was wonderful. “I judge that it is Parisian,” he said. Then, as he saw the question in her hazel eyes, he told about the City of Paris, where he had been the summer before. He described the beautiful shops, the lights, the damsels, and the rare and exquisite fabrics from which their gowns were fashioned.
“I reckon this box belongs to one of those beautiful ladies,” Muriel said at last.
Gene nodded. “I haven’t a doubt about it,” he agreed. “Have you looked through it thoroughly to see if you could find the name of the owner?”
The girl shook her red-brown head. “I cal’lated thar’d been a wreck, for ’twas a high storm as sent this box in. ’Twa’n’t hereabouts, but I reckon it was far out at sea.”
“Undoubtedly you are right, Muriel, but let’s look for some possible clue as to the former owner’s identity.”
The lad and the girl, as eager as two children, were on their knees in the soft sand of the cave. The dress had been carefully laid to one side. A small box of exquisite workmanship was found and when the cover was lifted the girl uttered an exclamation of joy, and in the dim light Gene thought her eyes like stars.
No wonder that Muriel was elated, for in that box there was a set of jewels of the most entrancing blue. Never had she seen anything just like it in the sea or in the sky. It seemed to be alive, that color! There was a necklace of them and two lantern-like earrings, a brooch and a ring.
Muriel gazed at them awed by their loveliness, her hands tight clasped. As Gene watched her, he wished that all girls might be as utterly unconscious of self as she was. Not a move did she ever make to attract him. She was as natural in all that she did as were the seagulls that circled over the cliff.
His thoughts were interrupted by Muriel, who looked up with a troubled expression in her eyes. “Gene,” she said, “’tisn’t right for me to keep ’em. They aren’t mine, and I cal’late they’re wurth a power o’ money. Aren’t they?”
The boy nodded. “A fortune, I judge.”
“I’d like to give ’em back to the gal as lost ’em, if I knew who ’twas.”
Gene had idly lifted from the jewel case a locket and had opened it. On one side was the portrait of a proud, beautiful girl, and on the other was a picture of himself. He snapped it shut and, replacing it in the box, he rose rather abruptly, saying: “Muriel, let’s finish our search for the owner’s name at some future time. Shall we? You know we started out to dig clams.”
Muriel was rather surprised, but as her patient did seem weary, she replaced the green dress and went with him to the beach below.
Gene wanted time to think.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MEMORIES
The next morning Captain Ezra asked Gene if he would like to go to the Outer Ledge and spend the day fishing, as the supply in the barrel was getting low. The lad was glad to go, and, as Muriel had baking to do, she was equally pleased to be alone.
Long, silent hours these were for Gene as he sat with the captain waiting for the coming of the fish that seemed reluctant to be caught in the early morning. Long, thoughtful hours. Now and then the lad even forgot where he was until a wave, larger than the others, rocked the boat and recalled to him his whereabouts. He was living over again a chapter in his past.
It had happened the summer before. His dear mother, who was perfect in every other way, had one obsession (many mothers seemed to have it, he concluded), and that was that she wanted the idol of her heart, her only son, to make a fashionable marriage.
During their last vacation, with his sister Helen, he had joined his parents in Paris, where Mr. Beavers was employed as resident representative of large American interests, he himself having a controlling share.
Mrs. Beavers had suggested a jaunt about the continent and had joined a small exclusive party, one of the younger members of it being just the sort of a girl she desired as a comrade for her son.
Marianne Carnot, the descendant of a long line of illustrious French folk, had been educated in London and although she was a dark, sparkling beauty of the French type, she spoke excellent English with a delightful accent which but added to her charm.
Gene’s mother, in her eagerness to interest her son in this girl (for Monsieur Carnot was a diplomat of fabulous wealth), had been truly discouraged, for they had neither of them cared greatly (or so it would seem) to be in each other’s company. When the pleasant journey through Italy, Switzerland and France was ended, Mrs. Beavers could not see that the two most frequently in her thoughts had been greatly impressed with each other.
They had come to the parting of their ways and Gene had never again seen Marianne nor had they corresponded. But the locket! How had Marianne procured the snapshot of him? Then he recalled one day in Rome when she had told him to stand by a famous statue and look his prettiest. He had supposed that a photograph of the statue was what she had really wished to procure, but he had been mistaken, evidently. Could it have been that Marianne had liked him especially? He was sure that this was not true. He also recalled that his mother had assured Mademoiselle Carnot that she ought to spend at least one year in an American boarding school. Evidently the French girl had been voyaging across the great Atlantic when her small steamer trunk had been lost.
Did that mean that Marianne had also met with disaster?
He decided that he would write his sister at once and inquire if she knew aught of her friend of the summer before.
When Gene reached Windy Island that night, upon one thing he had decided. He would tell Muriel the entire story. The next morning an opportunity presented itself. The girl was darning in the sunny kitchen when Gene came in from the shed on the shore where he and Captain Ezra had been cleaning fish and packing it away in the barrel which was kept very cold in a wet hole in the sand.
Muriel looked up with a welcoming smile. Just such a smile was ever awaiting the coming of her grand-dad.
Gene sat upon the broad arm of a chair nearby and twirled his cap. “Muriel, good friend,” he said, “I know to whom your box belongs.”
The girl looked up amazed, not understanding.
“Gene, how could yo’? We didn’t find a name or nothin’.”
“Yes, we found something. That is, I did.”
Those hazel eyes were again looking into the very soul of the boy, but he did not flinch. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed.
He slid down into the chair, and leaning forward, looked directly back at her. “I didn’t tell you at once, because I wanted to think it all over. I was so surprised I couldn’t quite understand myself what it could mean, but I do now, in part at least. May I tell you the story?”
The girl nodded and her hands lay idly in her lap, though still holding the sock she had been darning.
Gene told her all from the beginning. He wondered what her first remark would be when he paused. It was: “I reckon yo’re mother wouldn’t wish yo’ to be friends with me, Gene Beavers. I cal’late yo’d better go back to the city soon, to the kind of folks she’d want yo’ to be associatin’ with.”
“Nonsense, Muriel!” The lad had risen, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, he stood looking out of the window for a long time, silent, thoughtful.
