THE OWNER OF THE BOX.
They did not again visit the box in Treasure Cave. As he had planned,
Gene had written a long letter to his sister telling her that he was
getting strong and well, describing his interesting life on Windy Island,
but Muriel, for some reason, he did not mention.
He ended his epistle by telling his sister about the small steamer trunk
which had been cast ashore by a storm and then asked if Helen had heard,
lately, from Marianne Carnot. A week passed and no reply was received.
Gene, growing every day more rugged and ruddy, had actually forgotten
that his sister had said if he did not return to New York to spend the
holidays with her, that she would visit him.
It was a glorious day, about a week before Christmas, and the air was
invigoratingly cold. "I'll race yo' around the island on the beach,"
Muriel called, as she and Gene started out for their customary morning
hike when their tasks were finished.
"You won't beat," the boy, whose laughing face was beginning to bronze
from the sun and wind, shouted that his voice might be heard above the
booming of the surf on the rocks near.
"Won't I?" Muriel turned merrily to defy him.
"I snum you won't!" Gene liked to borrow words from the old sea captain's
lingo now and then. "Nor will I, for that matter," the lad confessed.
"Shags will. Now, one, two, three, go!"
Away they ran. Muriel was quickly in the lead, Shags bounding at her
heels, and the lad a close third. When they reached the north end of the
island they found that the tide was high, which meant that they had to
await the receding of the waves before they could round the point on the
sand. Luck was with Muriel, for when she reached the rocks there was a
clear wet space ahead of her and around she darted, but Gene was held up
while another breaker crashed in, and so, as they neared their final
goal, the little wharf on the town side of the island, the girl was in
the lead.
Her red-brown hair was blown, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes
sparkling, and as she whirled to exult over the lad, he thought he had
never seen a more beautiful picture. He caught both of her hands, but his
bantering remark died as he stared at the dock back of Muriel, hardly
able to believe his eyes.
"My sister Helen has come," he said in a low voice, "and someone is with
her." Instantly he recognized the someone. It was Marianne Carnot.
"I'll go back to the light," Muriel told him. "Yo're sister'll want to
see yo' alone, an' she won't care for the like o' me."
Gene leaped to her side when the girl turned away. "Muriel Storm," he
said, and there was a note of ringing sincerity in his voice, "you are a
princess compared to most girls. Come with me, please, to greet my
sister."
She went reluctantly. She recalled what he had told her about his mother
wishing him to care for this French girl of wealth and family and his
sister Helen would probably feel the same way. Perhaps they would not be
kind to her. How she wanted to run up to the light to the sheltering arms
of her grandfather. But Gene held her hand in a firm clasp until they
reached the top of the steps leading to the small wharf; then, releasing
her, he went to greet the newcomers, turning at once to introduce Muriel.
There was indeed a curling of the lips and a slight if almost
imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows, but the "storm maiden" in Muriel
had awakened, and it was with a proudly held head that she said: "Miss
Carnot, I'm that glad to be able to return yo're box, if 'tis yo'r'n."
"It is indeed mine," Marianne replied haughtily. "I will bid the man who
rowed us over to get it, if you will tell him where it is. Later you
shall receive the reward which my father offered for the return of my
trunk."
Muriel, her cheeks burning, was nevertheless about to comply when Gene
leaped forward, saying: "I will show the oarsman where the trunk is,
Rilla. You need not come."
Luckily, at that moment the island girl heard her grandfather's voice
booming her name from the door of the light. Gene heard it, too, and he
was glad that it offered his "storm maiden" an escape from further
humiliation which he was powerless to prevent.
Later, when the trunk had been placed in the boat, and when Marianne was
looking through its contents to be sure that nothing had been removed or
ruined, Helen took the opportunity of speaking alone with her brother.
She was truly glad to note that his health had been restored and she
implored him to return with her for the holidays.
"Surely, brother," Helen said, "you are strong enough now, and since it
was to gain your strength that you came, why should you remain any
longer? Gladys and Faith told me not to return without you. They both
like to dance with you, and Marianne, I know has been eager to see you.
She is hurt, I can tell, because you pay her so little attention today."
Then glancing toward the lighthouse, where Muriel was standing close to
her grand-dad, Helen added in a lower voice: "Of course, I know there is
nothing serious in this companionship, Gene, but what would our mother
say?"
What, indeed!
"Of course I shall be returning soon," was all that he would say, "as I
want to be back at college by the beginning of the winter term." Gene
spent a long, thoughtful hour alone on the cliff when his sister and the
proud Marianne were gone. Muriel was busy preparing the noon meal, but
she, too, was thoughtful. Her friend was well enough now to return to the
city and ought she not urge him to go? Just before the visitors had been
rowed over to Tunkett, Helen had ascended the flight of stairs leading to
the light, and, taking the hand of the girl who lived there, she had
said, almost pleadingly: "Won't you please advise my brother to come home
for the holidays? I can't stay with him here and it's going to be so
lonely for me with mother and father away. I would go to them, but the
vacation at midwinter will be too short."
There were tears in the eyes that looked at Muriel with the same frank,
candid expression that was also her brother's.
"I reckon he should be goin'," Muriel had answered. "I cal'late he's
strong enough now, and he'll be wantin' to get back to college arter a
spell."
Helen had smiled her gratitude, and pressing the slim brown hand that she
held in her own, that was gloved, she had said hurriedly: "Thank you,
Miss Muriel. Please don't tell brother that I made this request. He might
feel that I was interfering."
Then she had added, "I know _our_ mother would wish it."
Helen, ever considerate and kind, did not mean what Muriel believed that
she did. There was a deep crimson flush in the cheeks of the island girl,
but just at that moment Marianne had appeared at the top of the stairs to
coldly announce that she was ready to depart.
"I'm coming," Helen had called. Then, because she was too much like her
brother not to ring true, she held out her hand again to Muriel and had
said most sincerely: "I want to thank you and your grandfather for having
done so much toward restoring Gene's health. Goodbye."
"I reckon I'll be glad when they're all gone," Muriel thought, the flush
again creeping to her cheeks. "If Grand-dad an' I aren't good enough to
be associated with I cal'late when Gene comes in, I'll tell him he must
be goin'."
A moment later she heard his clear, merry whistle as he rounded the
house. To his surprise, when he entered the kitchen, she did not turn to
greet him with her usual friendly smile.
Had those girls made his "storm maiden" self-conscious? was his first
almost wrathful thought. Throwing his cap to a chair near, he leaped to
the kitchen table, where the girl stood busily stirring a cornmeal
mixture for baking. The lad saw the flushed cheeks and at once he
understood. Catching her hands, regardless of the spoon, he whirled her
about. "Storm Maiden," he said, "what did Marianne Carnot say that has
hurt you?" He felt, as a brother might, he assured himself, a desire to
fight the world to defend this girl. The quivering lips smiled just a
little.
"She didn't say nothin'," Then Rilla added: "Gene, I've been ponderin'
while yo've been out, an' I reckon yo'd better go back to the city now. I
cal'late maybe--maybe----" How she dreaded to hurt him, but she had
decided that he must go, but she did not have to finish the sentence.
Gene turned away and took up his cap. "Very well, Muriel," he said. "I
promised to mind every command, and if this is one of them, I'll go
tomorrow." Captain Ezra secretly rejoiced when he heard that the lad was
soon to depart. It was hard for him to share his "gal." He liked Gene, to
be sure, better than he did any boy he had ever known. In fact, he hadn't
supposed "city folk" could be so genuine; willing to clean fish or turn a
hand to anything however commonplace. To be sure Doctor Winslow might be
called "city folks," for he had spent most of his time in New York for
nearly thirty years, but when all was said, he was really a native of
Tunkett.
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.