Muriel tried to laugh and chatter during the meal that followed, but Gene found it hard to do so. He was still feeling rebellious. He was so sure Marianne Carnot had hurt his “storm maiden.”
“She should have remained in Europe if she does not approve of American democracy,” his indignant thought was declaring. “But in Muriel she has met her superior,” another thought championed, adding: “I hope the future will prove it and humiliate her snobbishness.”
After Gene’s departure the delayed blizzard arrived with unusual fury. The mountainous waves crashed against the rocks as though determined to undermine the light, high on the cliff above them; but when each fuming, frothing wave had receded the tower, strong and unshaken, stood in the midst of driving hail and wet snow, but its efforts to shine were of little avail, for its great lamp could merely cast a halo of glow and a small circle of light out into the storm.
Woe to the mariners, if any there were, who went too near the Outer Ledge while the blizzard raged.
“Rilly gal, I cal’late yer city friend got away jest in time,” Captain Ezra said on the third day of the blizzard, which had continued with unabated fury. “It’d be tarnal risky navigatin’ tryin’ to cruise him over to Tunkett today, which was when he cal’lated leavin’, wa’n’t it, fust mate?”
The old sea captain sat by the stove, smoking. It was warm and cheerful in the kitchen, but with each fresh blast of wind the house shook, while the very island itself seemed to tremble now and then as an unusually large wave crashed over it on the seaward side.
Muriel turned to look out of the window toward the town, but all that she could see was the grey, sleeting, wind-driven rain.
Turning back into the warm kitchen, she took her darning basket and sat near the stove. After a thoughtful moment, she spoke: “I reckon things allays happen for the best,” she began, “though it’s hard for us to see it that way jest at fust; but later on, we do. ’Pears thar’s a plan, Grand-dad, and if so, then thar’s Some-un doin’ the plannin’. If we really believe that, then we won’t be worryin’ and frettin’ about how things’ll turn out; we’ll jest be content, knowin’ that somehow they’re comin’ out for the best.”
The keen grey eyes of the old man were intently watching the girl, who, all unconscious of his scrutiny, sat with red-brown head bent over her darning.
“I cal’late yo’re right, fust mate,” he said at last. “It makes the v’yage seem a tarnal lot safer if yo’re sure thar’s a skipper in command that’s not goin’ to let yo’ wreck yer craft on the rocks. Like be you’ll sail in purty rough waters sometimes, but I cal’late thar’s allays a beacon light shinin’ clear and steady through the storm o’ life, waitin’ to guide you to a safe harbor if yo’re watchin’ for it and willin’ to be guided.”
Then the grey eyes of Captain Ezra began to twinkle. “Rilly gal,” he said, “I reckon Parson Thompkins over to Tunkett’d think we was tryin’ to have a meetin’ without him presidin’ at it.”
The girl smiled across at the old man whom she loved. Then, rolling two socks together, she arose to prepare the noon meal.
The captain tilted back his chair. “The sermon now bein’ concluded,” he announced, “it’s time for the singin’.”
In a clear, sweet voice Muriel sang his favorite of the meeting-house hymns. Peace and joy were within that humble home while the tempest raged without. But that night, when she was snug in her bed in her room over the kitchen, Muriel lay awake for a long time listening to the roar of the storm and the crash of the surf and tried to picture what her friend Gene was doing at that hour.
But his world was not her world and the island girl could not even imagine the gayety into which Helen and Gladys and Faith had lured him that New Year’s Eve.
The street lights in New York were barely distinguishable because of the storm which raged for many miles north and south along the Atlantic coast.
There were few pedestrians out, although it was still early evening, and but a scattering of closed vehicles. In one of these sat Helen Beavers, Marianne Carnot and Gene. The French girl shivered and drew her costly grey furs closer about her.
“So this is your winter,” she said. “I would like it better in the south where it is always summer.” She shrugged her slim shoulders and tried to peer out of the small, rain-drenched window.
The skidding car was turning into a fashionable side street. Soon they were gliding up the drive of a private residence. They stopped under a wide, sheltering portico and when the door was flung aside Gene leaped to the pavement to help the girls alight.
Brights lights burned within a handsome grey stone house, and a moment later the door was opened to admit them into a festive scene where there was youth and music, laughter and joy.
It was the home of Faith Morley’s Aunt Louise, and this was one of the parties to attend which the girls had begged Gene to return to the big city.
An hour later when he had danced, first with Faith, his hostess, and then with Helen and Gladys Goodsell, he went in search of Marianne, whom he found talking with a tall, lank youth in military uniform. The proud girl paid scant attention to the newcomer. Gene, knowing that it was his duty, if not his pleasure, to ask each of his sister’s friends to dance with him, waited until there was a pause in their conversation before making the request. The French girl thanked him effusively, of course, but declined, saying that she did not dance the old-fashioned American waltz. Then she turned back to the young cadet, who, if the truth were known, was boring her exceedingly. Gene excused himself and, seemingly unnoticed, walked away.
The slow, dreamy waltz music was being played by the palm-hidden orchestra and as it was the only dance for which Gene cared, he sought his sister, but was just in time to see her glide away with his pal, David Davison. He did not care to dance with anyone else. He felt too weary to be entertaining and so he slipped across the hall into the dimly lighted library, where a log was burning on the wide hearth, casting its warm glow over the low bookshelves and the statues and beautiful paintings.
He was glad no one was there. He wanted to be alone, to rest, he assured himself. But what he really wished was to remember.
He sank down into the big, comfortable chair in front of the fire which had recently been deserted by Mr. Morley. An open book and a magazine lay nearby.
How good it seemed to be away from the noise, if laughter and chatter and music could be called by a name so plebian.
Then he listened to the other sounds as he sank deeper into the soft depths of the chair and relaxed, stretching out before the warmth of the blaze.
How the storm whistled and moaned about the house and down the chimney. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what the storm would be like about Tunkett. He glanced at the small clock over the mantle. Ten-thirty. The house adjoining the tower would be in darkness, but the great lamp would be swinging. Perhaps the blizzard was keeping Muriel awake, and he wondered what she might be thinking about.
Just then he happened to recall what his sister had said to him that morning, and, knowing Helen, he also knew that she had meant it kindly. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she had looked into his eyes, saying: “Dear brother, you wouldn’t allow yourself to care for someone of whom your mother could not be proud. This friend of yours, Muriel Storm, is a fine girl, I am sure, but she could not associate with your friends, and our mother’s heart would be broken if you really cared for her.”
Of course he and Muriel did not care for each other in the way to which Helen had referred. They were just jolly good comrades.’ Why were people always romancing? He was glad that Muriel did not fit into the scene that was being enacted in the brilliantly lighted room across the hall. He liked her best as she was.
At midnight his sister found him and her glance was reproachful at first, but when she saw how truly weary he looked she rebuked herself for having kept him up late so soon after his illness.
She remembered how solicitous Muriel had been that he should not overwork. Was she, Helen, less considerate as a sister than this island girl as a friend?
When they were again in the closed car, Marianne retired into the depth of her furs and ignored their existence, pretending that she was too weary for conversation, but Helen understood.
Marianne, she knew, wished all boys to think her the most charming girl they had ever met, and though Gene was polite, he had not been devoted.
“Poor brother,” Helen thought, as she glanced at his face, pale in spite of its recent tanning. Aloud she said: “Gene, this is the last night that I am going to drag you around to a dance. I know that you ought to just rest, if you are to go back to college next month.”
Gene said nothing, but reached for his sister’s hand and held it in a loving clasp.
It was the first week in February before Captain Ezra thought it wise for him to cross the turbulent waters of the bay. It was indeed necessary for him to make the voyage then, as the oil had dropped to what he called “low tide mark,” and after that the faithful keeper of the light never delayed longer than necessary before refilling the tank.
The wind had subsided and the sun came out, revealing the island white with drifts of snow, and, too, there was ice on the stairs leading down to the little wharf. The ever-thoughtful Muriel, upon hearing her grand-dad say that he must go down and get the dory out of the boathouse, skipped ahead with a kettle of boiling water, and, after thawing the ice, swept the steps dry that her grand-dad might not slip.
The old man, coming out of the house just then, his fur cap drawn over his ears and his red knitted muffler tied about his neck, looked lovingly at the girl who always seemed to be planning something for his comfort or happiness.
Why, just then, he should have thought of Muriel’s father whom he had “robbed,” as Barney put it, he could not have told. What that father had lost no one knew better than Captain Ezra. “Ho! Rilly gal, yo’ve swabbed the decks clean, I snum.” Then he added: “Fust mate, I cal’late yo’d better get under cover. It’s cold enough to freeze a volcano, ’pears like.”
As he spoke, his breath frosted on the nipping air. The girl, rosy cheeked, was without hat or coat, and so, kissing her grand-dad on the tip of his nose (little else was visible) and telling him not to slip, and to be sure to bring her a pocketful of letters, she darted indoors.
She felt radiantly happy that glorious morning, and if she had been familiar with the poems of Robert Browning she would have sung, “God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world!” But, instead, her wordless song reverberated through the small house until her tasks were finished; then, putting on her leggins, her crimson tam and sweater-coat, and taking a small bag of bread crumbs, she waded through the snow to the cliff to try to find her feathered friends.
She called and waited, soon calling again. Then from out a sheltered cave in a cliff nearby they came, circling about her in the clear, crisp air, uttering their discordant cries, which, however, were music to the ears of the girl, who knew that they were notes of joy and welcome to the friend who fed them through the bitter cold months of winter when fish were scarce and hard to catch.
Muriel did not toss the fragments of bread this time, for she knew if she did so they would sink into the soft depths of snow and be lost; and so she brushed a rock clear and placed the feast upon it. Down the birds swooped, unafraid. It was too cold to remain long out of doors, and moreover Muriel wished to have a nice hot dinner awaiting the coming of her grand-dad.
An appetizing odor of coffee and sizzling bacon greeted the old man when, two hours later, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. The girl, flushed of cheek and eager-eyed, turned to greet him. “Any mail, Grand-dad?” Muriel’s heart was pounding fast when she asked the question.
The old man laughed as he thrust his hand into the deep pocket of his leather coat.
“Mrs. Sol said that if I hadn’t cruised to town today she was of nine minds to hire the lighter to fetch yer mail over. She was feared the floor of her store’d heave in with the weight of it,” he said.
The girl’s excited laughter rang out. “Oh, Grand-dad,” she said, “why does your coat bulge so queer like? I cal’late you’ve fetched somethin’ hid under it.”
She pounced upon him and drew forth the bulgy something, which proved to be a large square package. The wrappings were soon removed and there was the most wonderful book, “Treasure Island,” illustrated in the most beautiful blues and greens and gold. How Muriel loved color.
“Gene sent it,” she said, as she lifted the card with its painted wreath of holly and mistletoe.
But Muriel then had no time to look at the book, as letters were being produced from that great pocket. The girl gasped when she saw them and then she clapped her hands.
“Grand-dad,” she exclaimed, unbelievingly, “are they all for me? I reckon Mis’ Sol did think ’twas a powerful lot o’ mail, bein’ as I never had more’n one and a card before at a time.”
There were four letters from Gene, who had written one each week since he had left Windy Island. He knew his Storm Maiden could not write and so he did not expect answers. What he did not know was that the blizzard had prevented her receiving them as they arrived each week. There was another letter from Ireland and a Christmas card and a parcel from Uncle Lem. There were pretty hair ribbons in the parcel.
“Christmas in February,” Muriel laughed; then added: “The blizzard sort o’ got the calendar mixed, didn’t it, Grand-dad?”
Muriel took her new treasures up to her room and placed them on the top of her chest of drawers. She sighed as she looked at the letters and longed to know the messages they contained. It would take her until spring, she feared, to decipher them, as she would have to study them word by word with the aid of the Second Reader.
March came and April followed. Muriel thought that never before had there been so lovely a spring. The returning birds surely sang more wonderful songs than in the springs that were past. The melting snow on the cliffs trickled down, forming sparkling miniature waterfalls. Then, after a warm spell, out of every crevice in the rocks wild flowers blossomed.
The girl, running to the highest peak one glorious morning, flung her arms out toward the sky, letting the wind blow her red-brown hair as it would, and if Gene had seen his Storm Maiden at that moment he would have had a third picture of her that he would never wish to forget.
“Oh, it’s glad I am to be livin’,” she said aloud. “The world is so wonderful and friends are so kind. I’m that happy, so happy.” The birds, her birds, were soon circling about her, for, although there was plenty for them to eat, Muriel fed them just for the joy of it.
“I love every one of yo’,” she told them. “An’ yo’, too, poor ol’ lame pelican,” she called to a larger bird that descended when the flock of white gulls had swooped down to the sea, one of them having sighted a luckless fish that was glinting too near the surface of the water.
Then, scrambling down to her Treasure Cave, the girl brought from its hiding place in a crevice the well-worn Second Reader. Going out on the sun-flooded ledge, she sat for a moment just gazing at the sparkling surf that was crashing far beneath her.
Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she drew forth a letter bearing the New York postmark. It was the last that she had received from Gene, having been left at the lighthouse by little Sol.
Muriel had been in the middle of breadmaking then, but all the hour she had been filled with eager anticipation, for in his last letter Gene had told her that in the spring he was to have a vacation (he had been at college since the beginning of the midwinter term), and that even if he could only spare a day for it, he was going to visit Windy Island.
Muriel, while finishing the baking, had been happily wondering how her comrade would look after his month’s confinement at his studies. Perhaps the bronze from the wind and the sun would be worn away and again he would be pale as he was when she had first known him. How she hoped not! She wanted him to keep every bit of the strength he had gained during his month’s visit on Windy Island.
Muriel removed the letter, her heart beating rapidly. She was sure that in it he would tell the day of his coming. Soon, very soon, she hoped, as she wished him to see how lovely her rock-ribbed island home was when the wild flowers blossomed.
During the past months Muriel had become familiar with many of the simple words that Gene used in writing to her and she had to refer less frequently to the well-worn Second Reader.
With comparative ease she read the few lines:
“Dear Friend Muriel:
“I hoped to have good news to tell you today, but, after all, I am not to have my longed-for visit with you. Last night Helen received a cablegram from our father telling us to join them at once in London, and so we are to depart without delay, as Dad has reserved passage for us on the steamship ‘The Liverpool,’ which leaves its dock tomorrow at dawn.
“Dear good friend, don’t forget me! I don’t know what this command from our father means. I surely hope that mother is not ill, but, of course, it is a command which Helen and I must obey. I shall write you, however, as soon as I reach the other side of the broad Atlantic.
“Tell your grandfather, please, how grateful I am and ever shall be to him for having permitted me to share his home for that wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten month.
“Muriel, come what may, believe me when I say that next to Helen your friendship is dearer to me than that of any girl whom I know.
“This letter sounds as though I hardly expect to come back to the only country under the sun, but that isn’t true. Heaven willing, I’ll return when I’m twenty-one, if I have to remain over there until then.
“Goodbye, Storm Maiden, your closer-than-a-brother friend,
“Gene.”
The sun was still shining and the waves sparkling, the birds still singing and the flowers blooming when Muriel had deciphered the message in that letter, but the glory of the day was gone for her and there was no echo of song in her heart.
She arose, saddened, and after replacing the Second Reader in its niche, climbed the steep trail up the cliff and returned to the light.
The wonderful weather continued and, if there was loneliness in the heart of the girl because her friend and comrade seemed to be so far, so very far away, it was unnoticed by the old man who loved her, for whenever he was near, her clear voice rang out its sweetest and her welcoming smile always awaited him.
June came, and Captain Ezra, returning from town about noon on a day that was a-gleaming with blue in sky and sea (as only a day in June can be), produced a letter.
How the girl hoped that it was from her friend across the water, but, instead, it was from Doctor Winslow. In it he stated that he was coming to Tunkett for a week’s rest, as he had had a most strenuous winter, and, since he was not as young as he had been, he felt the need now and then of a period of relaxation. He was eager to see his comrade of boyhood days. He recalled the happy, carefree times when, barefooted, they had tramped over the salt meadows, swam together, breasting even the outer breakers, or had fished, talking quietly for hours of their plans for the future, which had proved so unlike.
“Ez, old pal,” the doctor had written, “I want especially to talk over with you something which has been much in my thoughts of late, and that is the future of the girl whom you love so dearly and whom, for that matter, we both love.
“You are not as unreasonable now as you formerly were, and so I again shall broach the subject of Muriel’s education. As I have said before, I wish to pay her tuition as my share, for am I not her Uncle Lem?
“You and I are advanced in years, Ezra, and we’re not always going to be here to protect Muriel. Think how unfitted she now is to face the world with no knowledge whatever of its ways; but more of this later when I come.”
Although there was disappointment in the heart of the girl because the letter had not been from Gene, she was indeed glad to hear that she was so soon to see her dear Uncle Lem, as it had been many months since his town house had been boarded up and he had departed for the big city.
“Lem’s to put into port next Tuesday,” the old man said. “I reckon he’s right about the iddication idee. I cal’late yo’d ought to be gittin’ some larnin’ into that purty head o’ yo’rn. Not but that yo’re suitin’ me to a ‘T’ jest as yo’ are, but Lem knows best, I reckon.”
There was a sad note in the voice of the old man and a suspicion of moisture in the grey eyes that looked so lovingly at his “gal.” Quickly he turned away to hide them. He had been selfish long enough and life was “tarnel unsartin” at best.
Then he recalled the long-delayed letter that he planned writing to Muriel’s own father. He had an address that his daughter had once sent to him, and in the accompanying note she had written: “Dad, a letter sent here will always reach my husband or me. Please write that you have forgiven me, for I do so love you.”
That note from Muriel’s girl-mother (with the address to which they were to write if they wished to reach her father) was in the iron box hidden in the tower near the great lamp, the very box of which Captain Ezra had told Captain Barney.
“If I should be tuk sudden-like,” the old man had said, “I want yo’ to go to the tower, get that box, Barney, an’ have some-un write to the father o’ my gal.”
Captain Ezra was thinking of these things as he sat smoking.
“I snum, I’ll get that thar letter written next Sunday as sure sartin as I’m keeper of the light,” he resolved as he rose to go to bed.
The next day the first intense heat wave of summer swept over Tunkett. The air was depressing. Muriel listlessly went about the tasks of the day. It seemed an effort even to sing, which she always tried to do to make the little home more cheerful. Never, never, should her dear old grand-dad know how lonely and disappointed she was because Gene had not even written to her. It was nearing July and as yet she had not heard of his safe arrival in Liverpool.
Boats did go down, now and then, the girl knew; and when she thought of this she asked anxiously: “Grand-dad, thar hasn’t been a wreck on the seas anywhar that you’ve heard of, has thar?”
Captain Ezra shook his head. “No, Rilly, fust mate; and I sure sartin hope thar’s none comin’.”
The next evening, when the old man came in to supper, he reported that the stifling air seemed, if anything, more hot and breathless, and also that clouds were gathering rapidly. “I reckon we’re glad o’ that,” was his comment. Then as he stood, looking out at the deepening twilight, he continued: “Thar’s heat lit’nin’ over to the west. Like’s not we’ll soon have a thunder storm. I sort o’ hope we will have one. ’Twill cool off this stiflin’ air an——”
The girl turned toward him, her face white.
“Oh, Grand-dad,” she implored, and her voice quivered, “I’m hopin’ it won’t come here with its crashin’ an’ threatenin’. I allays seem to hear it say, ‘Some day I’ll get——’”
The old man put his hand over the girl’s mouth as he said tenderly: “Rilly gal, don’t be talkin’ that way. What did yo’n I say ’tother day ’bout thar bein’ a skipper at the helm as we could trust. Didn’t yo’n I agree that his commands was allays for the best, whatever they seemed like to us? I reckon we’d better be rememberin’ it.”
Then, as he looked thoughtfully out at the storm-threatening sky, he said: “Fust mate, hold fast to that idee like it was your life preserver.”
Muriel clung to her grandfather, sobbing “I will, Grand-dad.”
The old man smoothed his “gal’s” hair, wondering vaguely at her fear and evident grief. Doctor Lem had said that Rilly had a very unusually active imagination and that they must be patient with her when they could not understand.
To change the girl’s thoughts the old man remarked: “I s’pose likely as not Lem landed in Tunkett today.”
“I hope so,” the girl replied, as she returned to the setting of the table for supper. Captain Ezra puffed on his corncob pipe a moment, then said: “I reckon he’ll be over long ’bout tomorrer. I snum I’ll be glad to see ol’ Lem. We two’s been sort o’ mates ever since we was young-uns. Lem, even as a boy, was straight as the mast o’ a schooner in all his doin’s.” For a few moments the old man smoked in silent thought. Then aloud: “I reckon Lem’s love would be the best port fer my gal to anchor in if—if——” Instantly the girl’s arms were around his neck. “Grand-dad,” she implored, “don’ say it. You’re goin’ to live’s long as I do, an’ longer, like’s not.” Then, as an ominous rumbling of thunder pealed in the distance, Muriel held him closer. “Grand-dad,” she said, “it’s coming.”
The old man looked out of the window at the gathering blackness. Then, loosening her arms, he leaped to his feet. “Rilly gal,” he cried, as she still clung, “let me go! The lamp’s not turnin’. Somethin’s happened to it.”
Away he hurried. The girl stood in the little kitchen where he had left her, with hands hard clasped. She heard his rapid steps ascending the spiral stairs. She waited, almost breathless, wondering why the circle of swinging light did not pass the window. There must have been a hitch in the machinery. That, however, was nothing to worry about. It had happened before.
Then came a vivid flash of fire that zigzagged across the sky. A torrent of rain swept over the island.
Flash followed flash with scarcely a second between, and crash on crash of deafening thunder. Then another sound was heard in the midst of the reverberating roar, a sound of splintering glass, of stone hurled upon stone.
Muriel’s prophecy had been fulfilled; the storm had wrecked the lamp that for so many years had defied it.
With a terrorized cry the girl leaped to the door of the tower, and, heedless of danger to herself, she climbed the spiral stairway, shouting wildly that her call might be heard above the fury of the storm: “Grand-dad, I’m comin’!” But the rain and wind beat her back; then the terrible reality surged over her. The lamp—the tower, both were gone! They had been hurled to the ground by the storm. Muriel knew no more, for she had swooned.
Hours later she was found by Doctor Lem and several longshoremen who had crossed the tossing waters of the bay to discover why the light was not throwing its warning beams out into the darkness.
Carefully, tenderly they lifted her. She had been bruised by rocks that had fallen while she lay there, though of this she had not been conscious. Doctor Lem and two of the men had taken her back to town and had waited until she had revived; then, leaving her in the care of the physician’s housekeeper, Brazilla Mullet, the men, in the cold, grey dawn, had returned to the island to find the keeper of the light, who had been faithful even unto death.
Muriel had been too dazed to really comprehend what had happened and Doctor Lem thought best to have the burial service at once and not wait until the grand-daughter could attend.
“Poor little gal,” Brazilla Mullet wiped her eyes on one corner of her apron, “she’s lost her best friend, I reckon, but she’s got a powerfully good one left in Doctor Lem, though she’s little carin’ jest now.”
The girl, who had been lying so listlessly in the spare room bed, opened dazed eyes and gazed a brief moment at the kind woman, who endeavored to smile though her lips trembled.
“Everythin’s like to be fer the best,” Miss Brazilla Mullet said. “Doctor Lem’s goin’ to carry out yer grand-dad’s wishes, Rilly. He’s goin’ to be yer guardeen now an’ take yo’ back wi’ him to the city an’ when yer well agin yer goin’ to school up thar to be iddicated wi’ the best of ’em.”
Then the good woman saw that the lips of the girl were moving, though she was not addressing her, and, leaning closer, she heard the words: “Grand-dad, I’m rememberin’. I’m a-holdin’ fast to the promise I made yo’ like ’twas my life preserver. But, oh, Grand-dad, it’s so hard to, so hard to, all alone.”
Then for the first time tears came and Muriel sobbed as though she would never stop, but the housekeeper was glad, for tears would bring the relief she needed.
And Brazilla Mullet was right. Muriel gradually became stronger, and when the doctor’s spring vacation was ended, without once looking over the bay toward Windy Island, the girl went back with him to the city.
The High Cliff Seminary was surely well named, for from the windows of its grey stone turrets one had a sweeping view of the surrounding country with its lovely woodlands, its wide meadow where grain was yellowing or stacked in the sun, with here and there a nestling town, a suburb of the big city that was several miles nearer the sea. Directly beneath were the sheer cliffs and then the broad, busy Hudson.
On the sun porch, one Saturday afternoon in September, a group of girls was gathered. It was evident that they were all old friends, as indeed they were since they had attended High Cliff Seminary the year previous. Among them were Faith Morley, Gladys Goodsell and Marianne Carnot.
Leaning back in a comfortable cushioned wicker chair, Marianne looked at the other through partly closed eyes.
“Your democracy in America is crude, n’est-ce pas?” she said, shrugging her shoulders and looking toward the far end of the long glassed-in veranda.
There, all alone, stood a girl dressed in dark blue whose red-brown hair was neatly fastened at her neck. With hands idly clasped in front of her, she watched the boats plying up and down the great river, and, oh, the loneliness, the bleak, grey loneliness in the heart of the girl.
Without a glance at the curious group at the other end of the sun porch, she soon turned and went within.
“Well, I confess democracy is carried rather far in this particular instance,” the plump, good-natured Gladys Goodsell remarked. “Not that I care greatly. We do not have to associate with her, whoever she is, unless we so desire.”
“Doesn’t anyone know who she is?” Catherine Lambert inquired.
The questioner did not look at the French girl, nor would she have been able to interpret the meaning of the slight sneer that appeared on the dark, handsome face for a fleeting second even if she had seen it.
Marianne had told no one that she had met Muriel the year before on Windy Island, and Muriel herself, though conscious of the presence of Marianne Carnot, was so numbed with grief that she cared little that she was being snubbed.
The coming of that “crude island girl” to this fashionable school had angered Marianne, but the memory of Gene’s very evident preference for Muriel’s companionship had aroused in the heart of the French girl a desire to make the other suffer, but she would bide her time.
“Is it true that she cannot speak the English language correctly?” The tone of the questioner was horrified in the extreme.
Faith Morley nodded, adding hastily (because her heart was kind): “But that in itself is not vital, for surely she can learn to speak correctly, but—but of course her family is rather impossible.”
“A lighthouse-keeper’s grand-daughter!” This from Adelaine Stuart, whose family tree was always shown to each new pupil at High Cliff, if she chanced to be one whom Adelaine wished to impress. That her father was imprisoned for having robbed widows and orphans with his wildcat schemes she did not tell.
“But, Faith, you know something of the girl’s story. Why don’t you tell it?” This from Gladys.
Faith hesitated. Would Helen wish her to tell, and yet surely there was nothing in what she knew that ought to be kept secret.
“Well, what I know is not much,” Faith confessed. “Muriel Storm is an acquaintance of Gene Beavers and——”
Exclamations of amazement interrupted the speaker.
Conscious of the shock and surprise her statement had caused in the group, Faith hurried on to explain. “You remember Gene had to leave college last fall because of a collapse of some kind.” Several nodded. “Well, he then went to Tunkett, a sea-coast town, to recuperate, and while there he met the keeper of the light who was Muriel’s grandfather. They did a good deal, Helen told me, to help Gene regain his health.” This last, rather defiantly. Faith, unlike the others, was not a snob at heart.
Nor, for that matter, was Gladys. “Poor girl,” she now put in. “I do feel sorry for her. Anyone who watches her for five minutes can tell that she has a broken heart.”
“Why that? What has happened to her?” Adelaine Stuart was curious.
“I wonder if any of you recall that terrible electric storm that we had last June,” Faith continued. “I remember how it crashed over New York. Old-timers said there had not been one as severe in twenty years. Well, it was during that storm that the lighthouse was struck by lightning, the old man was instantly killed and the girl hurled beneath the debris. She was unconscious hours later when she was finally rescued. All summer long she has been in a hospital in the city under the care of some physician whose home was formerly in that same sea-coast town. He it is who is sending her here.” They saw that the girl about whom they were talking left the veranda, apparently without having noticed them.
Faith went on: “Years ago Doctor Winslow’s sister and our Miss Gordon were friends.” Miss Gordon was the charming middle-aged woman who presided over High Cliffs. “Then this Muriel Storm not only belongs to a class of fisherfolk, but she is also a charity pupil.” Adelaine Stuart tried to show by her tone and expression the pride and scorn which should be exhibited by one possessed of a family tree.
“I shall write my mother,” she concluded, “and if I am not much mistaken Miss Gordon will consider it greatly to her advantage to at once dismiss that girl.”
“I shall do the same,” Phyllis Dexter echoed. “We ought not to be forced to breathe the same air with—with——”
“Une bourgeoise,” Marianne concluded the sentence for her.
The others did not notice when Faith Morley slipped away. She rebuked herself for not having thought of it before. Surely her dear friend Helen Beavers would wish her to be kind to the girl whose grandfather had been kind to Gene.
Faith paused outside of a room on the third floor of High Cliff Seminary and listened. Surely someone within was sobbing. Again her loving heart rebuked her. How many, many hours during the last week that the island girl had been in their midst had she sobbed like this and no one had come to comfort her? Muriel was in none of Faith’s classes and so she seldom saw her. Nor did she eat with the other pupils in the main dining hall, for, temporarily, she was seated at the right of Miss Gordon at the teachers’ table, there being a vacant chair which soon would be occupied by Miss Humphrey, the English teacher, whose leave of absence had not yet expired.
The problem of finding a seat for poor Muriel at first had been a hard one for Miss Gordon to solve, for she knew full well how heartless and snobbish were many of the daughters of her wealthy patrons.
When she received a message from Miss Humphrey stating that she would not return for another fortnight, the principal talked the matter over with the faculty and Muriel was then invited to sit with the teachers until the absent one should return. This would give Miss Gordon time to discover if any of the pupils were kindly disposed toward Muriel, and if so, she could then be placed at one of the three long tables in the main dining hall at which the young ladies were seated.
The teachers’ table was in a curtained alcove, and so many of the girls were not even aware of the fact that Muriel dined there. Moreover, it had been Doctor Lem’s wish that the island girl should receive private instruction, and as Miss Humphrey was the only teacher whose time could be arranged to make this plan possible, Muriel’s studies had not as yet begun.
Every day Miss Gordon sent for the girl to come to her room at the twilight hour. At first she did this for the sake of Doctor Lem, whose sister had been her dear friend, but after a time she did it gladly, for she found in the soul of this untutored girl much that it would be a joy to awaken and develop.
But, of course, there were many hours every day when Muriel was left alone. Oh, so alone. While the other girls were at their classes she wandered about the extensive, parklike grounds that grew wilder and more beautiful, so Muriel thought, a quarter of a mile down the Hudson and away from the school.
There she found a spot on an overhanging ledge where a young pine tree was clinging, none too securely, to the bank, for after each storm the earth beneath it loosened and a day was coming when that small pine and the ledge on which it stood would be hurled down the steep cliff into the blue waters seething far below.
The cliff on which the light had stood the island girl had thought high, but this was a sheer wall of rock that rose twice as far from the water toward the sky. The little pine had grown very dear to the girl who so loved nature, and often she would sit on the ledge, her cheek pressed against the rough bark, her eyes gazing far up the river, seeing not the boats of all kinds that were plying back and forth, hearing not the discordant sounds of screeching tugs or warning whistles, but picturing in memory the island she so loved and the lighthouse standing as it had for so many, many years, and tears gathered in her eyes as, in a dream, she saw her grandfather again as he had looked on that never-to-be-forgotten day, and then suddenly she would sob and hold her arms out, calling, “Grand-dad! Grand-dad, come and get your Rilly gal!” On one of these occasions she had cried herself weary, and for a moment she had slept on the little overhanging ledge. Her grand-dad seemed to come to her and say so plainly that she heard his voice: “Fust mate, didn’t you’n me agree that we’d trust the Skipper at the helm, knowin’ His guidin’ to be for the best?”
“Yeah, Grand-dad,” she said aloud, sitting up and looking about. Then she rose and drew back, shuddering, for she had been very close to the edge of the overhanging ledge. How easy it would be to fall off and—— The girl turned and ran all the way back to the school. That had been the day before and today she was staying indoors, half afraid to visit the ledge.
She sat up and looked toward the door when she heard a knock. “Come in!” she called, leaping to her feet. Her visitor, she supposed, would be either Miss Gordon or the maid of that corridor.
When Muriel saw a strange girl in the hall she felt rebellious, believing that she had called out of unkind curiosity, but Faith held out her right hand as she said graciously: “Miss Storm, I am Faith Morley, one of your schoolmates. I am sorry that I have not been up to see you sooner. Helen Beavers and Gene are dear friends of mine, as perhaps you do not know, and I am convinced that they would wish me to be your friend, too.” Then, feeling that the sentiment could be put in an even more kindly way, she added impulsively: “Truly, I want to be your friend. May I?”
Tears gathered slowly in the clear hazel eyes and the lips that replied quivered: “Thanks, but I dunno why you’d be carin’ for my frien’ship. If you do, though, I’m glad.”