WAINWATER CASTLE.
On the day that Muriel was winning the tennis tournament, Gene Beavers
sat in the library of their home on the outskirts of London, thinking
"Oh, to be near the Hudson now that Indian summer is there."
It was a glorious morning and the lad was tempted to go for a longer
stroll than usual when his sister burst in with, "Oh, Gene, something
wonderful has happened! You couldn't guess what, not in a thousand
years."
"Well, since I'm not an Egyptian mummy, there isn't much use trying," was
the smiling response; but his thought was, "How I wish it were that
Muriel Storm has come to England."
"Mother is overjoyed," Helen was saying. "It's the one thing for which
she has been longing and yearning ever since we came, and perhaps for
that very reason she has wished it into existence. Now can you guess?"
The lad shook his head. "I'm not much good at riddles, Sis," he
confessed. "What is it?"
"An invitation!" was the triumphant announcement as Helen brought the
hand which had been back of her to the front and held high a white
envelope which bore a crest.
Gene sank down in a comfortable armchair, the interest fading from his
face. "Is that all?" he asked. "A stupid bore, I would call it. How you
women folk can be so enthusiastic about invitations to receptions and
teas is more than I can understand."
His sister sat on an arm of his chair. "But, Gene," she said, "you have
often wished that you might stroll around in those park-like grounds of
the Wainwater estate."
The lad again assumed an expression of interest. "I'll agree to that," he
declared. "They are wonderfully alluring. Several times, when I have been
out for a stroll, I have gone down the Wainwater Road and have paused at
the least-frequented gate in the high hedge to gaze in among the trees,
hoping to catch a glimpse of a fawn, and yesterday I saw one drinking
from the stream. Such a graceful, beautiful creature, and it looked up at
me, not at all afraid."
"I know that gate," Helen said. "I stood there a moment only yesterday,
but what I especially admired was the picturesque view one gets of the
castle-like home which is at least a quarter of a mile back from the
road, among the great old trees. I have read about such places, with
galleries where ancestral paintings are hung, and I'd just love to see
the inside of one."
"You probably will never have the opportunity," her brother began; but he
was interrupted with: "Have you already forgotten this wonderful
invitation?" Helen again held up the crested envelope.
"But you haven't told me to what or by whom you are invited," the lad
replied.
"We, all of us, are invited to Wainwater Castle by the elderly Countess
herself, and the invitation was obtained by Monsieur Carnot." Then,
noting the slight frown, she hurried on to explain: "You know, dear, that
the Viscount of Wainwater really controls the business, the American
interest of which our father represents, but it seems that his honorable
lordship, if that is what he is called, is more interested in the arts,
and leaves the direction of matters financial to Monsieur Carnot."
Then, noting that Gene had turned away and was looking rather listlessly
out of the window, his sister added: "Brother, dear, doesn't anything
interest you any more? I did so hope that you would be glad to visit this
beautiful estate with mother and me. Father and Monsieur Carnot will be
unable to attend, and we counted upon you to escort us."
The lad looked up with a sudden brightening smile. Rising, he slipped an
arm about the girl as he said lovingly: "Your brother isn't much of a
social ornament, but he ought to be glad, indeed, that his mother and
sister really want his companionship." The girl looked pityingly into the
pale face that had been tanned and ruddy with health on that long ago day
when she had visited him on Windy Island.
Impulsively, she took both his hands. "Brother," she said, "it was wrong
of mother to make you leave America just when you were well again and all
because you were enjoying the friendship of a lighthouse-keeper and his
grand-daughter. Some day I shall tell mother the truth, which is that you
and I both hate, _hate_, HATE all this catering to and aping after the
English nobility." Then, inconsistently, she added: "Nevertheless, I _am_
curious to see the inside of the Wainwater mansion. However, if an
English nobleman asks me to marry him, I shall reply that I prefer an
American."
This last was called merrily over her shoulder as she left her brother,
who, though amused, heartily endorsed her sentiment.
Mrs. Beavers, who had been greatly elated by the invitation which she had
received from the Countess of Wainwater, obtained all the information she
believed they would require. Being Americans, they, of course, did not
know the correct way of addressing an elderly countess and her
middle-aged son, the viscount. They had a private rehearsal the evening
before the great event, which amused the young people. "Mumsie," Helen
said gleefully, "this reminds me of 'The Birds' Christmas Carol,' when
those adorable Irish children were drilled in manners before attending a
dinner party. Then to give them a proper sense of family pride, didn't
their mother say, 'And don't forget that your father was a policeman'?"
Mrs. Beavers did not smile. "Helen, dear, it is very important that we
know the proper thing to do and say on all occasions," was her only
reply.
The next afternoon, as they were being driven to the castle-like
Wainwater home, Mrs. Beavers looked admiringly at Helen and Gene. Any
mother, even a countess, might be proud of them, she assured herself.
However, being Americans, they did not seem to be as greatly impressed
with the fact that they were to visit a peer of the realm as this
particular mother might wish.
Helen had been just as elated when she was on the way to see an old
historical ruin, and as for Gene Mrs. Beavers glanced at him
apprehensively. He did not seem to be even thinking of the honor which
had been conferred upon them. Indeed, whenever his mother beheld that
far-away, dreamy expression in his eyes, she feared that he was thinking
of that "dreadful girl, the lighthouse-keeper's grand-daughter," nor was
she wrong. At that moment Gene was wondering what Muriel might be doing
and resolved to write her upon his return.
Notwithstanding the fact that it was a glorious, golden afternoon in
October, the windows of the castle were darkened and the salon within was
brilliantly lighted and thronged with fashionably dressed gentry from the
countryside and from London when the arrival of the Beavers was
announced. The elderly countess, as Gene afterwards said, would be just
his ideal of a lovable grandmother if she could be transplanted to a New
England fireplace and away from so much grandness.
There was, indeed, an amused twinkle in the sweet gray-blue eyes of the
little old lady who, during the first hour, sat enthroned, not being
strong enough to stand and receive.
Gene was idly watching the colorful scene about him, feeling weary indeed
and almost stifled with the fragrance of flowers and perfumes, when he
felt rather than saw that the countess was watching him. Glancing toward
her, he found that he had been right, for she was beckoning to him.
Quickly the lad went to her side, and in her kind, grandmotherly way she
said: "Dear boy, you look very tired. Why not go out in the park for a
while? Perhaps you will find there my son. He will be glad to meet you.
Follow the stream to a cabin."
Gene thanked the dear little old lady for her suggestion and after
telling his mother and sister his plan, he went out. He soon forgot the
brilliantly lighted salon in his joy at being alone once again with
nature. He had been ill so long that as he looked back over the days and
months they seemed to stretch behind him illimitably and grey, except
where they were made golden by his dreams of Muriel.
Dear, brave, wonderful Muriel! Gene knew now all that had happened; the
death of Captain Ezra, the lighthouse-keeper, who had been so kind to
him, and about the fashionable boarding school to which Doctor Lem had
sent his protege.
The kindly physician had received a note from Gene one day stating that
since he never heard from Muriel he would greatly appreciate it if, from
time to time, he would write and tell him of the island girl.
It had not been hard for the older man to read between the lines and he
had replied at once, telling all that had happened to Muriel.
But only the pleasant part of the letter from Doctor Lem was being
recalled by the lad as he followed the fern-tangled banks of a stream
that wound its picturesque way deeper and deeper into the wooded park.
Suddenly Gene paused. Surely he heard the bird-like notes of a flute. He
peered among the trees, but saw no one. Then, as he advanced, the music
was hushed and he decided that, perhaps, it had been the song of a hermit
thrush. There was a dense growth of evergreen trees just ahead of him.
They crowded so close to the edge of the water that the lad paused,
thinking that he would better go back, but, noticing a wet, mossy rock
near, he stepped out upon it, and, to his delight, saw just beyond the
pines the rustic cabin of which the countess had spoken.
Eager and interested, the lad half ran up the path, soft with pine
needles, and tapped upon the door, wondering if the cabin were deserted.
"Come in," a deep voice called.
Gene opened the door and entered a large, square, rustic room which
seemed to be both a hunting lodge and a den. A man whose face seemed too
young for its crowning of grey was lounging in a deep, comfortable chair
in front of a wide fireplace on which a log was burning. He wore a
crimson velvet jacket and he was reading. Other books and magazines were
placed on a low table near. Too, there was a flute, the notes of which
Gene had heard.
The man smiled a welcome. "American?" he inquired. Gene said that he was.
"Good!" motioning to a chair beyond the hearth.
"Lost?" was the next question. "No, sent," the lad replied, then seated
himself and told how he chanced to be there.
"My lady mother must have thought that you and I would like to know each
other," the man said. "You are the son of our American representative?"
"Yes, Eugene Beavers also is the name of my father."
"Fine man! Then, you've been ill?"
"A long time. Breakdown in college."
"Over-study or over-athletics?" The older man asked this with a quizzical
smile.
"Both perhaps. Neglected books while training for the big game, then
broke down cramming for midwinter exams."
"Like London?"
"No, I think it's beastly."
The Englishman laughed. "That doesn't sound American. What place do you
like better?"
"Tunkett, Massachusetts." Then it was the turn of the lad to laugh. "That
place, of course, means nothing to you. It isn't even on the map. Just a
fishing hamlet."
The viscount leaned forward and with the iron tongs moved the position of
the log that it might burn faster.
His next remark astonished the lad, who thought he never had met a man he
liked better.
"Come over here, Gene Beavers, and spend a week with me; or, better
still, we might take a hiking trip through Scotland."
"Honest Injun?" The lad's face glowed eagerly, boyishly.
"Honest Injun."
Thus was begun a friendship between the Viscount of Wainwater and Gene
Beavers. People marveled at it, for, though many sought the friendship of
the viscount, few were permitted to enter the seclusion in which he chose
to live.