THE STORM.
The wonderful weather continued and, if there was loneliness in the heart
of the girl because her friend and comrade seemed to be so far, so very
far away, it was unnoticed by the old man who loved her, for whenever he
was near, her clear voice rang out its sweetest and her welcoming smile
always awaited him.
June came, and Captain Ezra, returning from town about noon on a day that
was a-gleaming with blue in sky and sea (as only a day in June can be),
produced a letter.
How the girl hoped that it was from her friend across the water, but,
instead, it was from Doctor Winslow. In it he stated that he was coming
to Tunkett for a week's rest, as he had had a most strenuous winter, and,
since he was not as young as he had been, he felt the need now and then
of a period of relaxation. He was eager to see his comrade of boyhood
days. He recalled the happy, carefree times when, barefooted, they had
tramped over the salt meadows, swam together, breasting even the outer
breakers, or had fished, talking quietly for hours of their plans for the
future, which had proved so unlike.
"Ez, old pal," the doctor had written, "I want especially to talk over
with you something which has been much in my thoughts of late, and that
is the future of the girl whom you love so dearly and whom, for that
matter, we both love.
"You are not as unreasonable now as you formerly were, and so I again
shall broach the subject of Muriel's education. As I have said before, I
wish to pay her tuition as my share, for am I not her Uncle Lem?
"You and I are advanced in years, Ezra, and we're not always going to be
here to protect Muriel. Think how unfitted she now is to face the world
with no knowledge whatever of its ways; but more of this later when I
come."
Although there was disappointment in the heart of the girl because the
letter had not been from Gene, she was indeed glad to hear that she was
so soon to see her dear Uncle Lem, as it had been many months since his
town house had been boarded up and he had departed for the big city.
"Lem's to put into port next Tuesday," the old man said. "I reckon he's
right about the iddication idee. I cal'late yo'd ought to be gittin' some
larnin' into that purty head o' yo'rn. Not but that yo're suitin' me to a
'T' jest as yo' are, but Lem knows best, I reckon."
There was a sad note in the voice of the old man and a suspicion of
moisture in the grey eyes that looked so lovingly at his "gal." Quickly
he turned away to hide them. He had been selfish long enough and life was
"tarnel unsartin" at best.
Then he recalled the long-delayed letter that he planned writing to
Muriel's own father. He had an address that his daughter had once sent to
him, and in the accompanying note she had written: "Dad, a letter sent
here will always reach my husband or me. Please write that you have
forgiven me, for I do so love you."
That note from Muriel's girl-mother (with the address to which they were
to write if they wished to reach her father) was in the iron box hidden
in the tower near the great lamp, the very box of which Captain Ezra had
told Captain Barney.
"If I should be tuk sudden-like," the old man had said, "I want yo' to go
to the tower, get that box, Barney, an' have some-un write to the father
o' my gal."
Captain Ezra was thinking of these things as he sat smoking.
"I snum, I'll get that thar letter written next Sunday as sure sartin as
I'm keeper of the light," he resolved as he rose to go to bed.
The next day the first intense heat wave of summer swept over Tunkett.
The air was depressing. Muriel listlessly went about the tasks of the
day. It seemed an effort even to sing, which she always tried to do to
make the little home more cheerful. Never, never, should her dear old
grand-dad know how lonely and disappointed she was because Gene had not
even written to her. It was nearing July and as yet she had not heard of
his safe arrival in Liverpool.
Boats did go down, now and then, the girl knew; and when she thought of
this she asked anxiously: "Grand-dad, thar hasn't been a wreck on the
seas anywhar that you've heard of, has thar?"
Captain Ezra shook his head. "No, Rilly, fust mate; and I sure sartin
hope thar's none comin'."
The next evening, when the old man came in to supper, he reported that
the stifling air seemed, if anything, more hot and breathless, and also
that clouds were gathering rapidly. "I reckon we're glad o' that," was
his comment. Then as he stood, looking out at the deepening twilight, he
continued: "Thar's heat lit'nin' over to the west. Like's not we'll soon
have a thunder storm. I sort o' hope we will have one. 'Twill cool off
this stiflin' air an----"
The girl turned toward him, her face white.
"Oh, Grand-dad," she implored, and her voice quivered, "I'm hopin' it
won't come here with its crashin' an' threatenin'. I allays seem to hear
it say, 'Some day I'll get----'"
The old man put his hand over the girl's mouth as he said tenderly:
"Rilly gal, don't be talkin' that way. What did yo'n I say 'tother day
'bout thar bein' a skipper at the helm as we could trust. Didn't yo'n I
agree that his commands was allays for the best, whatever they seemed
like to us? I reckon we'd better be rememberin' it."
Then, as he looked thoughtfully out at the storm-threatening sky, he
said: "Fust mate, hold fast to that idee like it was your life
preserver."
Muriel clung to her grandfather, sobbing "I will, Grand-dad."
The old man smoothed his "gal's" hair, wondering vaguely at her fear and
evident grief. Doctor Lem had said that Rilly had a very unusually active
imagination and that they must be patient with her when they could not
understand.
To change the girl's thoughts the old man remarked: "I s'pose likely as
not Lem landed in Tunkett today."
"I hope so," the girl replied, as she returned to the setting of the
table for supper. Captain Ezra puffed on his corncob pipe a moment, then
said: "I reckon he'll be over long 'bout tomorrer. I snum I'll be glad to
see ol' Lem. We two's been sort o' mates ever since we was young-uns.
Lem, even as a boy, was straight as the mast o' a schooner in all his
doin's." For a few moments the old man smoked in silent thought. Then
aloud: "I reckon Lem's love would be the best port fer my gal to anchor
in if--if----" Instantly the girl's arms were around his neck.
"Grand-dad," she implored, "don' say it. You're goin' to live's long as I
do, an' longer, like's not." Then, as an ominous rumbling of thunder
pealed in the distance, Muriel held him closer. "Grand-dad," she said,
"it's coming."
The old man looked out of the window at the gathering blackness. Then,
loosening her arms, he leaped to his feet. "Rilly gal," he cried, as she
still clung, "let me go! The lamp's not turnin'. Somethin's happened to
it."
Away he hurried. The girl stood in the little kitchen where he had left
her, with hands hard clasped. She heard his rapid steps ascending the
spiral stairs. She waited, almost breathless, wondering why the circle of
swinging light did not pass the window. There must have been a hitch in
the machinery. That, however, was nothing to worry about. It had happened
before.
Then came a vivid flash of fire that zigzagged across the sky. A torrent
of rain swept over the island.
Flash followed flash with scarcely a second between, and crash on crash
of deafening thunder. Then another sound was heard in the midst of the
reverberating roar, a sound of splintering glass, of stone hurled upon
stone.
Muriel's prophecy had been fulfilled; the storm had wrecked the lamp that
for so many years had defied it.
With a terrorized cry the girl leaped to the door of the tower, and,
heedless of danger to herself, she climbed the spiral stairway, shouting
wildly that her call might be heard above the fury of the storm:
"Grand-dad, I'm comin'!" But the rain and wind beat her back; then the
terrible reality surged over her. The lamp--the tower, both were gone!
They had been hurled to the ground by the storm. Muriel knew no more, for
she had swooned.
Hours later she was found by Doctor Lem and several longshoremen who had
crossed the tossing waters of the bay to discover why the light was not
throwing its warning beams out into the darkness.
Carefully, tenderly they lifted her. She had been bruised by rocks that
had fallen while she lay there, though of this she had not been
conscious. Doctor Lem and two of the men had taken her back to town and
had waited until she had revived; then, leaving her in the care of the
physician's housekeeper, Brazilla Mullet, the men, in the cold, grey
dawn, had returned to the island to find the keeper of the light, who had
been faithful even unto death.
Muriel had been too dazed to really comprehend what had happened and
Doctor Lem thought best to have the burial service at once and not wait
until the grand-daughter could attend.
"Poor little gal," Brazilla Mullet wiped her eyes on one corner of her
apron, "she's lost her best friend, I reckon, but she's got a powerfully
good one left in Doctor Lem, though she's little carin' jest now."
The girl, who had been lying so listlessly in the spare room bed, opened
dazed eyes and gazed a brief moment at the kind woman, who endeavored to
smile though her lips trembled.
"Everythin's like to be fer the best," Miss Brazilla Mullet said. "Doctor
Lem's goin' to carry out yer grand-dad's wishes, Rilly. He's goin' to be
yer guardeen now an' take yo' back wi' him to the city an' when yer well
agin yer goin' to school up thar to be iddicated wi' the best of 'em."
Then the good woman saw that the lips of the girl were moving, though she
was not addressing her, and, leaning closer, she heard the words:
"Grand-dad, I'm rememberin'. I'm a-holdin' fast to the promise I made yo'
like 'twas my life preserver. But, oh, Grand-dad, it's so hard to, so
hard to, all alone."
Then for the first time tears came and Muriel sobbed as though she would
never stop, but the housekeeper was glad, for tears would bring the
relief she needed.
And Brazilla Mullet was right. Muriel gradually became stronger, and when
the doctor's spring vacation was ended, without once looking over the bay
toward Windy Island, the girl went back with him to the city.