Rilla of the Lighthouse

CHAPTER XXV.

MURIEL FINDS A FRIEND

Miss Gordon looked up from her desk, at which she was writing when, at her request, the door of the office opened. “Oh, good afternoon, Faith, dear,” she said when she saw the little brown maid who stood there, for nut-brown the girl surely was, hair, eyes and skin being dark.

“Can you spare a moment?” Faith asked, not wishing to interrupt, for she knew that her mission could be postponed.

“As many as you wish. Come in and sit down. I know by your eager expression that you have something to ask or to tell. What is it, dear?”

“It’s about Muriel Storm, Miss Gordon, that I wish to speak. I have been with her for the last two hours.”

The principal looked her pleasure. “Oh, Faith,” she said, “I’m so glad if you are taking an interest in poor, heart-broken Muriel. There is wonderful material in that girl and you are the one pupil in the whole school whom I had thought of asking to befriend her, but I decided to wait and see if there were any who would be kind to her without my having asked it as a favor.”

“I, too, think that Muriel is very unusual,” the girl declared warmly. “When I visited her room today I felt at once that yearning one would feel for any helpless thing that was hurt, but soon I became interested in her for herself alone. I never before saw a face that registers emotion more wonderfully, as Miss Burns calls it in our drama class.”

“You are right,” Miss Gordon replied. “I soon found that Muriel loved nature passionately, and what do you suppose we have been doing during the evening hour that we have spent together this week? Reading and listening to the great nature poems! And, dear, one night when the girl came to me she said, almost shyly: ‘Miss Gordon, I heard a little verse today when I was out with my pine,’ and then she told it. Although crudely worded, that little poem promises much. It described the surf beating on the rocks of her Windy Island home and of a lame pelican which is unable to compete with the more active birds in its struggle for existence, and depends largely on Muriel for its sustenance. She had been thinking of this bird friend, it seemed, and of the nature poems that I had read when this little verse came to her thought.”

“Miss Gordon, do you think that this untaught island girl is really a poet at heart?”

“I think just that. But, dear, Muriel is not untaught. True it is that she cannot speak our language. She knows nothing of science or numbers, but she has been taught high ideals by one of nature’s noblemen, her grandfather. Too, she has been taught the folk-lore of Ireland by another whom she calls Captain Barney, and nature, the winds, sky, storm, birds and sea have taught her much else. There are few girls at High Cliffs who are as well grounded in things worth while as is our Muriel Storm. Now, dear, what is it you wish to say?”

Faith hesitated, then said: “I was thinking that it might be pleasant for Muriel to sit in the dining hall with us.” Then she added, flushing: “Of course, Miss Gordon, it is pleasant for her to be with you, but – ”

The older woman placed a hand upon Faith’s as she said: “Dear, I understand, and also I have been waiting for this to happen. I wanted to place her where she would be happy and not unkindly treated. What is your suggestion?”

“I was wondering if Phyllis Dexter, who sits between Gladys Goodsell and me, could not be placed at the long table with her friend Adelaine Stuart. Every day she wishes that she were there, and then Muriel could sit next to me. Gladys will be very kind to her.”

There was a glad light in the eyes of the principal. She touched a button twice in rapid succession and the head waitress soon appeared. The change was ordered and then when the maid had departed Miss Gordon arose. “Dear,” she said, “in fifteen minutes the supper bell will ring. Will you take Muriel with you to the dining hall?”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Gordon! I am so glad that I have had this talk with you.”

Muriel was just waking from her siesta on the window seat, feeling wonderfully refreshed, when she heard the bell which meant that she had but fifteen minutes in which to prepare for the evening meal.

Again there came a tap on her door and this time Muriel called eagerly, “Come in.” She was sure that it would be Faith, and impulsively she whirled about, saying: “Will you be forgivin’ me for fallin’ asleep when you was readin’ to me?” Faith caught the outstretched hands as she replied: “Yes, Muriel, if you will grant me a great privilege.”

The island girl did not know that word, and, as usual, her face registered her perplexity. Faith laughed. Then, more seriously: “Dear, I would not hurt your feelings for worlds, but I was wondering if you would like me to help you to speak as we do?” She looked anxiously into the clear hazel eyes and to her joy she saw a glad light dawning there. “Oh, I’d be thankful if you’d care that much.”

“Very well, we’ll begin on the sentence you said a moment ago.” Muriel slowly repeated it correctly after Faith. Then she exclaimed happily: “There’s a rift in the clouds for me an’ the sun’s a-gleamin’ through.” There were sudden tears, but also a shining smile as she added: “’Twill be a long while before I can get the speakin’ right, but I’ll try.”

The last bell for supper was pealing through the corridors and Faith, catching the hand of Muriel, hurried her away.

There were groups of girls in twos and threes going down the circling stairway, and although many of them greeted Faith, none even smiled at her companion, but there were three who swept past with their heads held high. These snobbish girls were Marianne Carnot, Adelaine Stuart and Phyllis Dexter.

But a second later skipping feet were heard back of them and plump, good-natured Gladys Goodsell caught Faith by the arm. “Belovedest friend,” she said, after nodding at Muriel, “where hast thou been this afternoon? Didst forget that we were to play tennis at four?”

Faith turned, truly contrite. “I’ll have to confess that I did forget, Gladys. I am so sorry. Are you very hurt with me?”

A jolly laugh rang out at this reply. “Getting angry would take more energy than I have to expend.” Then, more seriously: “I know my friend Faith too well to think that she would neglect an engagement if she recalled it, and, as it happened, Catherine Lambert was pining to have someone play singles, and so I made her happy.”

They had reached the large, pleasant dining hall and saw many girls who were already there standing behind their chairs. Purposely, Faith delayed her companion near a window overlooking the garden of asters. The island girl’s eyes were aglow as she looked out.

“It’s pretty they are,” she said; “the like of ’em I’ve not seen. We had the wild ones but no planted flowers.”

Gladys, who did not in the least understand what was happening, glanced over at Faith, who, in a moment when she could not be observed by Muriel, placed her finger on her lips and nodded, as much as to say, “Do as I do and I’ll explain later.”

Gladys had chummed with Faith and Helen Beavers during the three years they had been at High Cliffs and understood the sign language of her friend almost as well as she did the spoken word. So she knew that something unexpected was about to happen, and that she was to take her cue from Faith.

Although Muriel occupied the seat formerly that of Phyllis Dexter, the change had not pleased that proud girl, who had so wished to be placed next to her particular friend, Adelaine Stuart. Instead she found herself placed between two seniors in whom she was not remotely interested. The truth of the matter was that Miss Gordon had long been observing the three girls, Marianne, Phyllis and Adelaine, and thought it wise to keep them apart whenever it was possible.

When Muriel, looking almost happy for the first time since her arrival at High Cliffs, was seated, she felt a compelling gaze and glanced across the room. There she saw Marianne watching her through half-closed lids. There seemed to be in the French girl’s expression a threat that endangered her new-found joy and peace. But Faith, who also had seen, reached under the table and, finding Muriel’s hand, she held it in a close, protecting clasp, and the island girl knew that come what might she would not have to stand alone.

Saturday dawned gloriously bright, for it was Indian summer on the Hudson. The air was soft and balmy, the sunshine hazy and a dreamy little breeze rustled the few yellowing leaves that were still clinging to the trees.

“Just the day for a hike,” Faith announced at breakfast.

Catherine Lambert, who sat across the table, looked up eagerly and in answer to the speaker’s question, “Who wants to go?” she at once replied, “I do.”

“Muriel is to be the guest of honor.” Faith smiled lovingly at the girl next to her. “Gladys, how about you?”

“I thought we were to practice for the tennis tournament today. There is only a month left, you know.”

“That’s right. So we were. But, Gladys, if you will go hiking with us today I’ll promise to practice tennis every afternoon next week from four to five, my free time, on one condition.”

Her friend looked at her inquiringly. “Name it,” she said.

“That fifteen minutes each day may be devoted to teaching Muriel our favorite game.”

“Agreed. Who knows but that she may be just the champion player for whom we are looking,” Gladys good naturedly declared with sincere fervor.

And Catherine chimed in with: “Oh, wouldn’t it be great if we could make a player out of Muriel? We haven’t anyone on our side as light on her feet or as quick as Marianne Carnot. Just because of that I’ve actually been afraid that we might lose out on the great day.” Then, to the wide-eyed listener, Faith explained: “On Thanksgiving every year we have a tennis tournament. Marianne and her friends are the opponents of Gladys and her chums. Of course, naturally we are eager to win. Now, Muriel, if you are willing, we will train you. Not that we expect you really to bring victory to our side; that would be asking too much, since Marianne Carnot was the champion tennis player in the English boarding school that she attended before she came to America. She has three medals to prove her frequently made boast, and, moreover, we have seen her play.” Then, as the surveillant of the dining hall gave the signal, the pupils rose and left.

In the lower corridor, near the office of the principal, Faith paused. “Wait a minute,” she said softly. “I am going to ask Miss Gordon if we may take our lunch. I do not have to return to the school until three o’clock, just in time for my violin lesson.”

The permission was readily granted and then the four girls went to their rooms to dress for the hike.

Muriel was happier than she had supposed she would be ever again, and she actually smiled at her reflection as she donned her sport skirt, sweater and tam.

When she was dressed, Muriel stood gazing idly from her window.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MURIEL RECEIVES A LETTER

When Muriel Storm returned from the hike to the woodlands and found upon her desk a letter from Gene Beavers she did indeed rejoice, and without stopping to remove her hiking apparel, she curled up on her window seat to read the missive, which, as usual, was couched in the simplest words.

The two weeks of tutoring which Muriel had received from Faith had helped her to read with far greater ease. The lad told of his long illness which had resulted from the cold, stormy weather, the rough voyage and the damp, foggy climate of London.

He had seen nothing of the city since his arrival, but even though they were living in one of the fashionable outlying districts, he could hear the distant roar of the traffic, and now he yearned to be back on Windy Island, where only were to be heard the sounds of nature.

When Gene wrote that letter he knew nothing of the tragedy of the lighthouse, for although Faith had mentioned it in a letter to Helen, his sister had thought best not to sadden him with news that might be a shock to him, for she well knew how greatly he admired the old man who had been keeper of the light.

However, she had been glad to tell him that Muriel Storm was attending the High Cliff Seminary. This did not really surprise him, for often he had heard Doctor Winslow say that, as soon as he could convert the old sea captain to his point of view, he, at his own expense, intended sending the girl, of whom he was fond, to some good boarding school.

Little did Muriel dream that Gene’s proud mother had sent for him that she might get him away from the degrading influence of the fisherfolk with whom he had been staying and about whom she had heard from Marianne’s father, who was a business friend of Mr. Beavers.

Then for months she positively forbade the boy to write to the “island girl,” but at length, when his illness lasted so long, the mother consented to permit Gene to write if he would promise to remain in England until he was twenty-one. By that time he would have forgotten that daughter of the common people, for she, of course, would be unable to travel, and so they would not meet.

For a long time after the reading of the epistle Muriel sat with the letter lying in her lap as she gazed with unseeing eyes at the busy Hudson. If only she knew how to write! As yet she had never answered one of Gene’s letters, nor had he expected a reply. Of course, Faith, Gladys or Catherine Lambert, all dear friends, would gladly pen a letter at her dictation, but that would not be quite the same. She wanted to write the very first letter all by herself.

She wondered how long it would be before she could learn.

It was nearing five o’clock when there came a rap-i-tap upon her door, a signal meaning that Faith awaited without.

In reply to Rilla’s “Come in!” the door opened.

“Muriel Storm, I do believe that you have been day-dreaming again! Why haven’t you removed your hiking togs? I came up to tell you that Miss Widdemere wishes us to gather in the study hall at five-fifteen for the first class of the year in politeness.”

The island girl sprang up and hastily began to change her costume. “A class in politeness, is it?” she repeated, in a puzzled tone of voice. “What does one have to be learnin’ in that kind of a class?”

Faith sat on the window seat to wait until her friend was ready to accompany her. “Oh, it’s a sort of society stunt, so to speak,” she explained. “We practice curtsies for grace, make seven different varieties of calls, more or less, are taught what to do with our hands and feet, how to be a hostess and how to be a guest. Oh, yes, and what to do and what not to do if we’re ever presented to a queen.” Faith was purposely exaggerating. She really believed the class in politeness rather unnecessary, since the young ladies came from homes where they learned from babyhood all that they would need to know.

She had forgotten for the moment that Muriel had not had these same home advantages.

“Oh, I wish I didn’t have to be goin’ to it,” the island girl said as she turned away from the mirror, again dressed in her dark blue school uniform. “I’ll be that awkward, an’ I don’t know nothin’ about manners.” Her voice was so truly distressed and the expression on her face so tragic that Faith sprang up from the window seat and, slipping a protecting arm about her friend, she said: “Dear, I’ll ask Miss Widdemere to excuse you today; that is, just let you watch the others, and then, this evening, I’ll come up to your room and teach you the curtsy. It would hardly be fair to ask you to begin with the others when many of them practiced during the whole of last year.”

Faith had suddenly recalled overhearing a conversation when she was on her way to the cupola room. Adelaine Stuart and the French girl had been just ahead of her and she had distinctly heard the former say: “If it is your desire to humiliate that lighthouse person wait until she has to take the part of hostess in politeness class. That will show her up before the whole school.”

The rest of the sentence Faith had not heard, as she had passed the two schemers with her head held high, but when she came to think it over she wondered why Marianne Carnot wished to harm Rilla, whom she barely knew.

Faith resolved to stay close to Muriel to protect her, if she could, from whatever humiliation Adelaine and Marianne might be planning, and it was indeed lucky for the island girl that she had so staunch a friend.

Faith was glad to find that the Mistress of the Manners Class was still in her office, and thither she led Muriel.

The young teacher glanced up and bade them enter. Then Faith asked: “Miss Widdemere, have you met our new pupil, Muriel Storm?”

There was a brightening expression in the kind grey eyes back of the large, dark-rimmed glasses. The teacher advanced, her right hand extended.

“No, indeed, and I am most pleased to meet you. A lucky new pupil you are to have the friendship of our Faith.” This with a loving glance at the girl who stood at Muriel’s side.

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks!”

Miss Widdemere’s glance was puzzled, though not unkindly critical. It was not customary for girls from the North to say “ma’am,” but perhaps this new pupil was a Southerner. The teacher was even more perplexed when Faith beckoned to Gladys Goodsell, who stood near awaiting her friend, and said: “Will you take Muriel to the classroom? I wish to speak with Miss Widdemere for a moment.”

When the door was closed, in as few words as possible Faith told the tragic story of Muriel’s coming to High Cliffs.

“She has never had an opportunity to learn the ways of social life, Miss Widdemere,” the girl said earnestly, “but when you know her better you will think her very unusual, I am sure.”

Then, as she was eager to create a favorable impression, she added: “Muriel has beautiful fancies and our Miss Gordon believes that she is to be a real poet some day.”

“What a loyal friend your friends have in you, Faith? What is your request?”

It was granted as soon as heard. “Muriel may listen and watch,” the teacher declared, “but we will not ask her to take part until you tell me that you have coached her sufficiently in private.”

Then, as the bell in the corridor was announcing that laggards must make haste, these two went to the study hall, where the pupils were assembled. Some were seated on the desk tops, others standing in groups chatting, but when Miss Widdemere appeared all arose, and facing her, made deep curtsies. Muriel alone remained erect, not knowing what to do.

Marianne, gazing across the room through half-closed lids, smiled and nudged her companion.

“She’s as graceful as a hitching post,” Adelaine replied, loud enough to be heard by several who stood near.

Muriel felt their gaze and flushed with embarrassment.

“The young ladies will now arrange their chairs in a large semi-circle, the vacant space in the center to represent a parlor.” Miss Widdemere waited until the confusion was over and the pupils seated before continuing:

“We will now select a hostess and ten guests to attend an afternoon tea. Whom do you name as hostess, Phyllis?” She had turned toward that young girl because she had risen. “I name Muriel Storm,” said Phyllis, who had been well coached by the girls who sat next to her.

Miss Widdemere sent a keen glance in their direction, and she said, rather coldly: “Young ladies, partly because of Muriel Storm’s recent bereavement, we are not expecting her to share in our imaginary social functions for a month at least.”

Marianne Carnot added in an undertone heard only by those about her, “And the other ‘partly’ is that she couldn’t if we did expect it.”

Faith eventually was chosen as hostess and Muriel intently watched every move made by her friend. How graceful she was and how gracious! A slip of a Japanese girl, who was the daughter of the chef of the school, appeared dressed in an attractive native costume and played the part of maid for this class. When she was older she, too, would be trained for the sphere that she was to fill.

That evening Faith found her friend both discouraged and homesick.

“It’s out of place I am among you all,” she said. “I’d ruther be back with my seagulls, I’m thinkin’. I’ll never take to bowin’ and goin’ to teas.”

Faith laughed merrily; then shaking a finger at Rilla, prophesied: “The day is coming when you may be asked to be hostess for a lord or an earl or someone like that; then won’t you be glad that you learned how at High Cliff Seminary?”

The idea was so absurd that even Muriel laughed.

“Me hostess at an earl’s tea party? You’re allays sayin’ you have no imagination, but I’m thinkin’ you have some and to spare.”

Laughter brought a better humor, as it always does, and for an hour that evening Muriel permitted her friend to teach her the first positions to be made in the curtsy.

CHAPTER XXVII.

MURIEL BEGINS HER STUDIES

A fortnight passed and during that time Miss Gordon and Faith had started Muriel’s development in several directions. In fact, the younger of her teachers soon triumphantly announced that not a pupil at High Cliff Seminary could make a more graceful curtsy than Muriel.

The day before the expected arrival of Miss Humphrey, who was to tutor the island girl, she confided to Faith that she just knew that she could make far greater headway with writing and reading if she might continue practicing them with her best friend than she could with a teacher, however learned, who was strange to her. It was evident to the three girls who were her closest comrades that Muriel dreaded the first hour that she was to spend with Miss Humphrey.