A GIFT FROM THE SEA.
Sunrise and the memory of the treasure box came at the same time. Rilla
was dressed in a twinkling. She did not even stop to peer into the bit of
broken mirror which Mrs. Sol Dexter had given her, hoping that with it
would go the proverbial seven years of bad luck. Mrs. Sol Dexter kept the
general store and postoffice in the fishing village of Tunkett.
She was absolutely honest, was Mrs. Sol, but not inclined to be generous.
If the scales tipped one cranberry too many, out came that cranberry! She
had never before been known to give anything away, but something which
might bring bad luck she had been willing to part with.
It had been a happy day for Rilla, that one, when for the first time she
had acquired a real mirror.
It was, of course, after the summer season, or she would not have been in
town at all. And on that same day her grand-dad had given her a whole
quarter to spend just as she wished and she had asked Mrs. Sol Dexter for
two hair ribbons, one to match the sunrise and one like the green in the
hollow of a wave just before it turns over when the sun is shining on it.
"Queerest gal, that!" Mrs. Dexter confided to her husband, Cap'n Sol, the
next time he came in from one of his sea "v'yages."
"She must get all them sunset notions from her pa's side. I recollect
hearin' he was an artist fellow."
"Wall," the good-natured man had replied, "if that pore gal gets any
comfort out'n 'em, I'm sure sartin glad. She's little more'n a prisoner
most o' the year over thar on Windy Island. Jest because her ma ran off
'n' married up wi' that city feller, ol' Ezry Bassett is tarnal sartin
the same thing'll happen to Rilly. But I cal'late them thar city fellars,
on the whole, ain't hankerin' to splice up with lighthouse keepers' gals
nor grand-gals, neither."
When Rilla had reached home that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had
purchased something all by herself and for the very first time, she had
slipped up to her room with the broken mirror and she had tied on both of
the new hair ribbons, one red and one green. They weren't the shades that
she had really wanted, but they were the prettiest that Mrs. Sol Dexter
had in stock. Then she gazed long at her reflection in the mirror.
Once--just once--her grand-dad had told her that she was the "splittin'
image" of her mother, who had died when she was only seventeen.
"I've allays wished as I had a photygraf of her," Rilla had thought. "Now
I can be lookin' in the mirror an' pretendin' it's a picture of my
mother, only _she'd_ be lots sweeter lookin'. Mrs. Sol Dexter said as how
the summer folks called _her_ beautiful."
There was always a wistful, yearning expression in the hazel eyes of the
girl when she thought of her mother.
But all this had happened the autumn before. Bad luck had _not_ befallen
Rilla--she didn't even know that a broken mirror was supposed to bring
bad luck--and that is probably why it had not done so; for we get, in
this world, what we expect very often, and this little lass, who lived so
close to nature, was always expecting something wonderful to happen and
she found real joy in the simplest things.
The dog, lying just outside the door, lifted a listening ear the moment
his little mistress had stepped out of bed and he was eagerly waiting
when she softly opened the door.
"Sh! Shagsie, ol' dog, don' be barkin'," the girl cautioned. "Grand-dad's
put the light out an' he's gone back to his bunk for 'nother forty winks.
You'n I'll have time to see what's in the box. Sh-h! Soft now!"
The dog's intelligent brown eyes were watching the face of his mistress
and he seemed to understand that he must be very quiet. If Muriel tiptoed
as she went down the curving flight of steps to the kitchen, so too did
Shags. As she passed the door of her grand-dad's bedroom she could hear
his even breathing.
It was not unusual for Rilla and Shags to climb to the top of the crags
to watch the sunrise, and so, even if her grandfather had awakened, he
would have thought nothing of it, but it was not to the highest point of
the cliff that the girl went.
Instead, she clambered down what appeared to be a perilous descent, but
both she and the dog were as sure-footed as mountain goats, and they were
soon standing on the out-jutting ledge in front of a small opening which
was the entrance to her Treasure Cave.
Eager as the girl was to learn the secret that the box contained, she did
not go in at once, but paused, turning toward the sea. The waves, lifting
snowy crests, caught the dawning glory of the sky. Impulsively she
stretched her arms out to the sun.
There was something sacred to this untaught girl about the rebirth of
each day, and the glory of the sky and sea was reflected in her radiant
upturned face. Only for a brief while did the pageantry last, and the
world--Rilla's world, all that she knew--was again attired in its
everyday garb, sky-blue, sea-green, rock-grey, while over all was the
shining sun-gold.
Stooping, for the cave door was too small to be entered by so tall a girl
were she standing erect, Rilla disappeared from the ledge and Shags
followed her. The cave within was larger than one might suppose, and was
lighted by wide crevices here and there in its wall of rocks through
which rays of sunlight slanted. The continuous roar of the surf, crashing
on the rocks below, was somewhat dulled.
Rilla leaped forward with a little cry of joy.
"Shags," she called gleefully, "it's still here! 'Twa'n't a dream-box
arter all. I sort o' got to thinkin' in the night it might be." She
clapped her hands, for there were moments when Rilla was a very little
girl at heart, much younger than her years, and yet at other times, when
she was comforting her old grand-dad and soothing away his imaginary
fears, she was far older than fifteen.
Shags was now permitted to bark his excitement, which he did, capering in
puppy fashion about the banded box of foreign appearance.
The girl looked at it with her head on one side. "How in time are we to
get into it, ol' dog?" she inquired as she stooped to examine the box.
"'Pears like we'll have to smash it. Here yo', Shags, what's that tag-end
yer tuggin' on? Yo-o! It's the answer to the riddle, like's not! That
strap's got a buckle on it, an' it's mate's the same. Heave ho! Open she
comes. Easy as sailin' down stream." As the girl spoke she lifted the
cover of the box and uttered a cry of mingled joy and amazement.
"Thunder sakes! Tarnell!" she ejaculated, unconsciously using both of her
grandfather's favorite exclamations at once.
"Shagsie, ol' dog, will you be lookin'! There's a mirror inside the cover
as hasn't a crack in it. Yo-o! It comes out. There now, stood up it's as
tall as I am." As the girl talked to her interested companion she lifted
the mirror-lined cover and placed it against the wall of the cave.
Meanwhile the curious dog was dragging something from the box. Rilla
leaped forward to rescue whatever it might be. "Lie down, sir, and mind
orders," she commanded. "I'm skipper o' this craft." After rescuing the
mysterious something which the dog had evidently considered his rightful
share of the booty, the girl knelt and examined the contents of the box.
She then turned glowing eyes toward her comrade, who had minded her and
was watching her intently, his head low on his outstretched paws. "Land a
Goshen!" she ejaculated. "Shagsie, ol' dog, what'd yo' think? This here
box is full o' riggin's for a fine lady such as comes from the city for
the summer, 'pears like, though I've never seen 'em close to."
Awed, and hardly able to believe her eyes, Rilla lifted a truly wonderful
garment from the trunk--it was silk--and green, sea-green like the heart
of a wave just before its foamy crest curls over in the sun.
It was trimmed with silvery, spangly lace.
"It's a dress to wear, 'pears like, though thar's not much to it as yo'
could call sleeves, an', yo-o! Shagsie, will yo' look? Here's slipper
things! Soft as the moss on the nor'east side o' a rock an' green, wi'
silver buckles." Then the girl's excited, merry laughter rang out as she
drew forth another treasure. "Don' tell me yo' don' know what this here
is, Shagsie," she chuckled. "Maybe yo' think it's a green spider-web, but
'tisn't; no, sir, it's got a heel and a toe to it! That's a stockin', ol'
dog. Now, who'd----" She paused and listened intently. Ringing clear
above the booming crash of the surf she heard her grand-dad calling.
Quickly she ran to the opening.
"Rilly gal, tarnation sakes, whar be you? Never seem to be around mess
time lately. The kettle's singin' like a tipsy sailor and 'bout to dance
its cap off."
"Comin', Grand-dad," the girl thrust her head out to reply, in a quieter
moment, when a wave was receding; then hastily, but with infinite care,
she knelt and smoothed the silken folds of the shimmering green gown,
replaced the mirror-lined top, strapped it down and then covered the
whole with an old sail cloth which had been one of Rilla's former
stowed-away treasures.
If the girl had been excited the night before, she was much more so this
early morning. However, her grand-dad was preoccupied and did not notice
the flushed cheeks and eager, glowing eyes of his "fust mate." Silently
he ate his quarter of apple pie, gulped down a huge cup of steaming
coffee. It was plain to the girl who watched him that he was thinking of
something intently.
Rilla was counting the minutes that would have to elapse before she
revisited the cave, when her grand-dad pushed his armchair back from the
table and arose.
"Rilly gal," he peered over his spectacles at the girl, "I've got to
navigate to town this mornin'. Oil and supplies are gettin' tarnicky low,
'pears like. Equinoxial storms are due in port mos' any day now, so we'll
not put the v'yage off any longer. Fust mate, be gettin' into yer
sea-goin' togs."
Muriel's heart sank. "Oh, Grand-daddy, do I _have_ to go?" The piercing
grey eyes under shaggy brows turned toward the girl questioningly. Had he
heard aright? Could it be _his_ "gal" begging _not_ to be taken to town,
when usually it was right the other way.
Then he laughed. "What a suspicious ol' sea-dog I am," he ruminated.
"Mabbe the gal's rigged up some new fancy notion down in that cave o'
her'n." Aloud he said heartily. "All right, fust mate, stay anchored if
ye want to. I'm thinkin' thar's nothin' on Windy Island to molest ye.
Thar's the gun in the corner if yer needin' it, but Shags, here, will
protect ye, won't ye, ol' skipper?"
The dog leaped alongside as the old man went down the steep, wet stairs
that led to the wharf, near which a dory was floating.
The girl stood in the open door, and with shaded eyes watched the
scudding sailboat until, as was his custom, her grand-dad turned to wave
to her as he passed the first buoy.
There were many buoys, painted in varying bright colors, that the skipper
of each incoming fishing smack might have no trouble in locating his own
particular mooring place. On a moonlighted night, when the sailing boats
were all in, it was indeed a pretty sight to see the flotilla, some newly
painted and others weather-stained, bobbing on the choppy waters of the
bay.
Windy Island, though only a quarter of a mile wide, was nearly a mile
long, and protected one of the snuggest little harbors to be found along
that wild, rugged coast.
As soon as the kitchen was shipshape, Muriel raced toward the outer edge
of the cliff, calling "Yo-o, come on, Shagsie, ol' dog. We'll cruise back
to the cave."
But Rilla did not enter her Treasure Cave again that day, for in another
moment, and quite unexpectedly, she was launched upon her very first real
adventure.