“We have a strong team,” Faith told Muriel one noon at lunch, “when Joy is with us, but not so strong when she isn’t.”
“I haven’t met Joy Kiersey as yet, have I?” Rilla said this slowly, thoughtfully, and hence more correctly.
Faith was pleased, but made no comment. “No,” she replied. “Joy did not return at the beginning of the term, and although she has been in High Cliffs for a week now, she remains in her room most of the time. We thought that we would call upon her this afternoon during the free period, and I planned asking you to accompany us.”
Muriel shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. Then twinkles appeared in her clear hazel eyes. “I dunno how to make a call. We haven’t had that yet in politeness.”
Faith, however, did not smile. “This afternoon, dear, you follow me and do just what I do and then, at least, you will be as correct a guest as I am.”
“Miss Gordon said that we might go,” Gladys leaned forward to remark, “and Joy is eager to have a real visit with us.”
“We haven’t had an opportunity since she came to confer about the game.” This from Catherine.
“Maybe she’d ruther I didn’t come.”
Faith looked reproachfully at her friend, then said softly that no one else might hear: “Rilla, you are forgetting our new rule. Think a sentence before you say it.”
Muriel flashed a bright smile at the speaker, thought a moment, then repeated: “Perhaps your friend, Joy Kiersey, would rather that I did not come.”
“Not so, Rilla.” Faith was glad to be able to add truly: “Joy asked especially about you. She was watching us yesterday as we returned from the court and she inquired who you were, and what do you suppose she said?”
“I can’t guess. Something dreadful, like’s not—I mean—I suppose.”
“Not a bit of it! Joy asked who the girl was who carried herself as though she were a princess.”
Muriel looked blank. “Who was she talking about? If ’twas me, then she was just makin’ fun.”
“No, dear. Joy wouldn’t do that. You don’t realize it, of course, but there are times when you carry yourself, shall I say proudly? Or——” Faith hesitated, groping for a word, then laughingly confessed, “I don’t know just how to express it.”
“As though she had a family tree like Adelaine Stuart,” Gladys put in.
Muriel laughed; then said earnestly: “I come from a long line of good, honest New England seafaring folk and I’m proud of it. My grand-dad stood erect, the way I suppose you mean that I do. Summer folk often spoke of it. I remember one man visitin’ the light said grand-dad was like a Viking. Queer how I remembered that word all this time. I suppose because I wondered what it meant.”
“Oh, I know all about Vikings,” Gladys boasted. “Listen and you shall hear. Between the eighth and eleventh centuries the coasts of the British Isles were visited by the Norsemen, called Vikings, or sea-rovers, who contributed much to the romantic history of medieval Europe.”
“My! What a lot we know,” Catherine Lambert teased as she beamed across the table, and Gladys merrily retorted: “Well, why shouldn’t I know it today, since I only learned it yesterday. But don’t ask me anything about it next week.”
Then, as the signal was given, the girls arose and left the dining hall.
Little did Muriel guess that these dear friends had planned the call upon Joy that she might have an actual experience that would fit her for the dreaded class in politeness.
The afternoon tea was a delightful affair. Joy, who seemed to Muriel to be the embodiment of loveliness, welcomed them to her sunny, flower-filled room with a graciousness which at once won the heart of the island girl.
“Miss Joy Kiersey, may I present my friend Miss Muriel Storm?” was the form of introduction chosen.
“I am indeed glad to make the acquaintance of so dear a friend of our Faith,” was the sincere response as Joy extended her hand and clasped that of the new member of their little clan. “Now, everybody find a place to curl up somewhere and let’s chat for half an hour while the kettle boils. Dear Miss Gordon granted a special dispensation today and yonder on the tea table is seen the flame of my alcohol lamp that will soon persuade the tiny teakettle to start its song.”
“Oh, what an adorable teakettle that is! I love copper things, don’t you, Muriel?” Gladys exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that the island girl might not be familiar with things antique. Faith replied for her friend, then added: “Joy’s latest hobby, it is quite evident, is collecting baskets. You have a dozen new ones, I do believe.”
Their hostess nodded, and pointing to a large, round and nearly flat basket lying near the hearth: “I found that in Nevada last summer when we were visiting Lake Tahoe. It was made by the Washoe Indians and I think that I prize it most of all, and yet that Washoe water bottle on the mantel is interesting as a curiosity.”
After the bottle-shaped basket had been admired Gladys asked: “Did you find people different in the West?”
“I like the real Westerner,” Joy replied, “but there was one thing that was always like a discord to me, and that was the manner of introduction used by many of them. They say, ‘Meet my friend.’ It is so harsh and so abrupt. If they would say, ‘I would like you to meet my friend,’ it would seem more gracious.”
Muriel, listening, resolved that she would never use that crude form of introduction.
“Hark!” Catherine Lambert said softly. “I hear a voice calling to us.”
Joy uncurled from the big chair which the girls had insisted that she occupy. “Oh, the little copper teakettle is singing.” Then to Faith, “Will you pour today, Miss Morley?”
No one looked at Muriel, and as she did in all things as her friends did, the serving of tea and wafers passed without a mishap.
When the bell in the corridor announced the hour of five o’clock Faith rose. “Time to depart,” she said. Then to their hostess, “Joy, I am so glad that you are better. We have had a delightful time at your tea party and shall hope to see you soon in Pickle Pantry.”
This was the name that Faith jokingly gave the room that she shared with Gladys, for that maiden being extremely fond of sweet pickles, always had a bottle of them stowed away in most unexpected places.
“Girls,” Joy said remorsefully, “we haven’t made a single plan for the game. However, I’ll be at the court tomorrow at four.”
As Faith and Muriel ascended the stairs toward the cupola room, whither they were going for a half-hour review of spelling, the former asked: “Isn’t Joy a dear?”
“I love her,” Muriel said. Then she asked: “Are you sure she is real?”
Faith turned with puzzled eyes. “Real? Do you mean sincere?”
The island girl shook her head. “No, indeed, I know she is that! I mean that she looks like the gold and white fairy folk Uncle Barney used to tell about—and they always disappeared.”
Faith smiled. “Joy is our Dresden China girl, and, oh, Muriel, how I do hope she will grow strong. Her mother took her West last year believing the invigorating air of the Rockies would help her; but even now she hasn’t the strength that we who love her desire. The world has need of girls like our Joy,” she concluded.
Joy Kiersey, to the delight of her friends, appeared at the court next afternoon. Her soft, golden hair was like an aureole of sunshine about her head, for when she began to play she tossed her pale blue tam on a bench, where earlier she had flung her sweater-coat of the same color.
Joy and Catherine played singles for a while, the two being the experts of the team. Faith, Gladys and Muriel sat nearby watching with admiring eyes.
Time after time Joy was able to smash a ball over the net in such a manner that it fell dead before Catherine could return it.
“That’s our only hope,” Faith confided to Muriel, “that play of Joy’s! It’s a trick that her Harvard brother taught her and, watch as closely as we may, we cannot acquire it. Her brother, it seems, made Joy promise that she would not teach it to the other girls unless it might be in an emergency of some kind.”
“If Marianne Carnot and Adelaine Stuart are to play against Joy and Catherine,” Muriel said, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, “they will have to be wonderful players to win.”
“You would think so,” Gladys chimed in, “but you have never seen Marianne run. She seems to be everywhere at once. It doesn’t matter on what part of the court we place a ball, there that French girl is, ready to return it, often with a volley, and her aim is true. However, Joy does excel in the smash stroke, and so, if she is strong enough to play, we may win.”
Soon Joy declared that she wanted to rest and watch while the others played.
Faith buttoned the girl who had been ill into her blue sweater-coat and then wrapped a soft golden scarf about her, although Joy declared that she did not need it. “You’re warm now,” Faith told her, “but there’s a decided nip in the air today, and we must be careful of our champion.”
At first Muriel was self-conscious, for she knew that Joy’s sweet blue eyes were watching her, not critically but with interest.
Suddenly, however, her attention was attracted by the falling of the ball on the extreme opposite side of the court. Of course Catherine would run for it, Muriel thought, but when she saw that maiden slip, Muriel ran as though her feet were shod with the wings of the wind. Over the net the ball went and Catherine was ready to volley it back when Gladys returned it.
Joy wanted to shout her delight. How she longed to sing out: “Girls, Marianne may be able to run, but Muriel flies!” But, instead she kept very quiet. She saw that the island girl was beginning to forget herself, and she did not wish to say anything that would cause her self-consciousness to return.
Soon Joy realized that she had over-estimated her own strength, for a sense of weariness was creeping over her. She rose, meaning to tell the girls that she had better go to her room, but she fell back on the bench, her face pale. Joy had fainted. Faith, rebuking herself for having permitted the frail girl to play at all, was quickly at her side, as were the others.
Joy soon opened her eyes and found her head resting on Faith’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she said. Then with a sigh she concluded: “I guess I’ll have to give up trying to play in the tournament.”
“Never mind, Joy dear. We would far rather have you regain your strength slowly than win all of the tennis honors that could come to us,” Faith assured her.
With the assistance of loving arms, Joy returned to the school and was soon made comfortable in her padded blue silk kimono. Muriel and Gladys brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, while Catherine went kitchenward to fill the copper teakettle with boiling water.
The next day Joy felt as well as she had before, but the girls were unanimous in declaring that she must not play tennis again until spring. Then it was that Joy made a resolution.
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.
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.”
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.
“Girls, have you heard that Miss Gordon has offered a prize for the best poem written by a student in any of her English literature classes?”
Faith nodded. “I heard, but I haven’t entered. I can’t make two lines rhyme.”
“Nor could I,” Gladys Goodsell said, and laughed over her shoulder at the newcomer, for she was on the hearth rug roasting marshmallows over the fire.
“Who of our clan is going to try for the prize beside myself?” inquired the flushed and excited Joy Kiersey. “Oh, I’d be the happiest, you can’t think how happy, if only I could win it.”
“Why, Joy!” Gladys changed her position that she might divide her attention between the fire and the group of friends. “Why are you so eager to win the prize?”
“Maybe it’s a basket that Joy covets.” This merrily from Faith.
The golden head shook in the negative. “I adore writing poems,” she confessed. “I wrote dozens of them last summer, but, then, the scenery in Colorado and along Lake Tahoe would have inspired a stump to write verse.”
A month had passed since the tennis tournament and Joy’s strength had returned to her almost miraculously, and, to the delight of her friends, she was able to join them in their daily tramps across the snowy fields and she had even suggested a coasting party for the first moonlight night.
Too, she had taken her place in the classes and was going ahead of the others, as she always did when she was strong enough to really study.
Catherine Lambert looked up from the mysterious pink thing upon which she was sewing. “It’s a Christmas gift,” was all that she would tell about it.
In fact, all were sitting about the rose-shaded lamp in Muriel’s room that stormy Friday night, sewing upon gifts equally pretty and mysterious. That is, all except Gladys, their youngest, who said that her fingers were thumbs when it came to sewing, and that she would far rather sit on the rug before the fire and roast marshmallows. One by one she placed the delicious golden puffs upon a warm plate, and when there was a goodly heap of them, she arose, saying: “Put away your sewing, girls, and partake of the refreshments for which I have spent the last nickle I will have until my Christmas money comes.”
“Poor Gladys,” laughed Joy, as she perched upon the arm of the chair in which Muriel was seated. The island girl glanced up with a softening light in her eyes as she felt the caress upon her red-brown hair. How close these two had grown in the last month. Not that Muriel’s love for Faith had lessened; in fact, all of these five girls were very dear to each other, and yet between Joy and Muriel, who were so unlike, there was growing a love the strength of which even they hardly knew. Joy, exquisite, dainty and as jubilant as her name suggested, had been surrounded from babyhood with every luxury, while Muriel had known but the bare necessities.
“Whose names are entered?” Faith asked, as she put her sewing into a dainty workbag and took one of the marshmallows.
Joy counted them off on her fingers. “Dorothy Daggert first and foremost, and, since she is a senior and always wins A-1 in everything that she writes, there will be little hope for any of the rest of us. Four others in the senior class have entered, two in the sophomore, and, girls, what do you think? One of them is Marianne Carnot!”
Faith’s expression registered astonishment. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “Marianne is in my class and she never writes verse, even when we may choose the form for our composition.”
Miss Gordon had entered Muriel’s name as one competing and it was because of this fact, as yet unknown to either Rilla or Joy, that Marianne Carnot had also entered her name.
Miss Gordon looked up brightly one evening a fortnight later when she heard a familiar tap on the door of her little apartment.
“Good evening, Muriel,” she said in response to the greeting from the girl who had entered. “I have some news for you. Can you guess what it is?”
“No, Miss Gordon, unless,” and the hazel eyes were eager, “Uncle Lem is coming for that long-promised visit.”
“Not that,” the older woman smiled. “However, I have a letter from Doctor Winslow and in it he assures us both that just as soon as his duties will permit he shall avail himself of our invitation. The news has something to do with your school work.”
Muriel had taken her usual seat, a low rocker on the side of the fireplace opposite her teacher. Miss Gordon, looking at the truly beautiful face of the girl, and at the soft crown of hair that was like burnished copper in the glow of the firelight, felt more than ever convinced that Muriel had inherited much from that unknown father.
“Am I to be placed in one of the classes?” There was almost dread in the voice that asked the question.