THE STORM.
The expected storm arrived the next day, although not in its usual fury.
However, as there was no real need for Muriel or her grandfather to cross
the bay, which was wind-lashed into white-capped, choppy waves, they
remained in the house.
"Queer the way our reg'lar crasher of a storm is delayin' this year,"
Captain Ezra said on the third night after the rains began. Muriel, who
was washing cups at the time, suddenly whirled, and throwing her arms
about the old man, regardless of her soapy hands, she cried passionately:
"I'd be glad if they never came, Grand-dad. I don't know why 'tis, but
when the lightning zigzags all aroun' like a sword of fire, the thunder
seems to roar, 'Some day I'll crash yer light that's tryin' to defy me.'"
The old captain looked truly distressed. "Rilly gal," he said, "I wish
yo' didn't take such queer notions. You're jest like yer mother was
before yo'. She used to come singing down from the top o' the cliff and
tell me yarns 'bout what the wind and the waves had been tellin' her. Lem
used to say she'd ought to be sent somewhar's an' taught to write
stories. That'd be a good channel, he opinioned, to let out the notions
that was cooped up in her head, an' here yo' are jest like her."
The old man looked so truly distressed that the girl exclaimed
contritely: "Yo' dear ol' Grand-dad, if it's worryin' yo', I'll try to be
diff'rent. I might be like Lindy Wixon now. She don't have any queer
notions.
"I asked her once if she wouldn't like to visit the star that's so bright
in the evenin', an' she stared like she thought I was loony, honest she
did." Then, stooping, the girl laughingly peered into the troubled eyes
beneath the shaggy grey brows. "How would yo' like to change gals,
Grand-dad? I kin----"
"Belay there, fust mate. That tack's crazier than the fust." Then lifting
a listening ear, he added: "The wind's rising. I reckon the big storm is
crusin' this way arter all." But Captain Ezra was wrong, for, although
the wind blew a gale and the leaden clouds were hurled low above the
light and the rain now and then fell in wind-driven sheets, changing at
times to hail that rattled against the windows, still the tempest that
often came in the fall was delayed. Perhaps, indeed, as the captain began
to hope, it was not coming at all that year, for, whenever it had passed,
it had taken its toll of lives and boats, however faithfully the warning
light flashed its beacon rays out through the storm.
There was a week of inclement weather, and Muriel often stood in the warm
kitchen looking out across the waters of the bay that were sometimes
black under the sudden squalls and sometimes livid green when the sun and
rain were struggling together for mastery, but the girl's thoughts were
not of the weather but of what might be happening in Tunkett.
In fancy she looked into the newly adorned cabin where Captain Barney had
lived alone for so many years, but, try as she might, she could not
picture there the old "mither" he had so yearned to see.
Then in imagination she visited the glassed-in veranda of Doctor
Winslow's home, but it was empty and the windows of the house were
covered with heavy wooden blinds.
Shuddering, she turned back into the room to find that the fire in the
stove was dying down. It was cold; that was why she was shivering, she
decided. Maybe her grand-dad was right. She was becoming too fanciful.
Putting on an armful of dry driftwood, she began to sing as she prepared
the evening meal, and her old grandfather, who came down the spiral
stairs, having set the light to whirling, felt cheered when he heard the
musical voice of his "gal."
The next morning, to the joy of Muriel, there were only a few vagrant
clouds in the sky and the stars were shining when she arose.
It seemed as though never before had there been such a glory in the east
as there was when Apollo drove his flaming chariot, the sun, high above
the horizon, once more triumphing over Jupiter Pluvius, the God of Rain,
but of mythology Muriel, as yet, knew nothing.
What she did know, and it set her heart and voice to singing an anthem of
gladness, was that the storm was over and that she might sail to Tunkett
and inquire after her dear friends, the old and the new.
Her grandfather, too, wished to visit the store of Mrs. Sol, for the
supply of oil must be replenished. It would never do to let it get below
a certain depth in the great tank which contained it, for there might
come a storm of unusual length and fury and the light must be kept
burning.
Muriel felt more optimistic, for we are all somewhat mercurial for
temperament, and it is much easier to believe that all is well when the
sun is shining, and yet, is not the sun always shining just behind the
clouds that never last?
At the wharf they parted, the old sea captain going at once to the store,
while Muriel hastened up the main road toward the home of Dr. Winslow. As
she neared it she suddenly stood still and gazed her dismay, hardly able
to believe what she saw. "Arter all, 'twa'n't queer notions," she said in
a low voice. "'Twas true!" And indeed it was. The physician's blinds were
barred over the windows. Doctor Winslow had received word from the
hospital in New York over which he presided that if he would shorten his
vacation this year it would be greatly appreciated, and as Gene Beavers
had gained strength enough to travel, he had accompanied the physician.
Miss Brazilla Mullet, from a window of her cottage on the other side of
the low evergreen hedge, saw Muriel standing as though stunned and she
hurried out with a letter. "Gene Beavers left it for you, Rilly," she
said, "an' he wanted me to tell you that he's gettin' stronger, an' as
soon's he's able to travel alone he's comin' back, if only for a day, to
be tellin' you goodbye; but like's not he's told you all that in the
letter." Then, as the air was nippy with frost, Miss Brazilla hurried
indoors again. Rilla placed the letter in the pocket of her coat and
walked back to meet her grandfather.
Together they had planned to visit the cabin on the dunes and see Captain
Barney, but they did not go, for, when Muriel beheld her grand-dad
emerging from the store, she knew by his expression that he, too, had sad
news to tell her.
"No need to go to Barney's, fust mate," he said. "He's not there an' the
cabin's shut up tight's a clam. 'Pears that when he got to Boston and met
the incomin' steamer the young priest that was comin' over with his ol'
mither tol' him as how she'd been all ready to start, an' then wa'n't
strong enough to make the v'yage. 'Twas best, the priest said, it bein'
stormy all the way, but she'd sent word that she'd come in the spring."
"That's how it's been for years," the girl declared. "But where is Uncle
Barney? What did he do?" Rilla's voice was tremulous and eager.
"He signed articles to sail back on the same boat as steward, an' he had
the young priest write to Mrs. Sol to shut up his cabin but to leave
things shipshape as he'd cruise back in the spring and bring his ol'
mither."
There were tears in the eyes of the girl, and, as she held close to his
arm, Captain Ezra felt her tremble. "Grand-dad, we'd better be hurryin'
home," she said. "The sky's cloudin' fast an' it's gettin' colder."