MURIEL WRITES A LETTER.
Meanwhile Muriel had a problem of her own to settle. She had been invited
to spend the holidays in the homes of her two best friends, and did not
know what to do, as she wished to accept both invitations, but that, of
course, was impossible. Then it was that the matter was decided for her
in a most unexpected and delightful manner. Doctor Winslow had been a
frequent Sunday visitor at the school (for was not his protege one of the
pupils?) and each time there had been a cozy party in Miss Gordon's
charming "den."
The kindly physician had noticed an expression of weariness in the eyes
of the older woman as though the responsibility of training so many girls
was bearing heavily upon her and he had suddenly decided that what she
needed was a complete change of scene; and, as he had often heard Miss
Gordon express a desire to visit Tunkett, he offered his home to her and
to Muriel for the midwinter vacation, assuring them that he had already
communicated with his housekeeper, who lived in a neighboring cottage,
and that both Brazilla Mullet and her brother Jabez would look after
their every comfort.
Muriel was seated in her low chair on the side of the fireplace opposite
Miss Gordon when that little woman, her eyes glowing, her cheeks faintly
flushed, read aloud the letter which she had received from the brother of
her long-ago classmate.
"Oh, Miss Gordon, shall we go? How wonderful it would be," Muriel
exclaimed. "You'll just love Tunkett and the dear queer people. Of course
they don't seem queer to me, but they surely are different. I can't
imagine them living anywhere else but just in Tunkett. I love them all,
every one of them, even old Cap'n Sam Peters, I do believe. Grand-dad
used to say that Cap'n Sam was too lazy to haul in a cod even when he had
him well hooked. Then there's Mrs. Sam Peters and all the other
fisherfolk.
"How happy little Zoeth Wixon will be when he sees me! I hope no one will
tell him that I'm coming. I want to surprise him and Shags. Oh, Miss
Gordon, won't Shags be the happiest dog in all this world when he hears
my voice? Nobody knows how lonely I've been for my shaggy comrade, but it
made Zoeth so happy to keep him and I couldn't have him here. I must take
everyone of them a Christmas present. What fun that will be! Little Zoeth
used to call me his 'story-gal' because I told him the tales Uncle Barney
had told to me. Oh, I know what I'll do. I'll buy him a book full of
pictures of fairies and giants. Zoey is going to the village school this
winter and if I choose a book with short words in it and big print, he
may be able to read the stories all by himself.
"Now what shall I get for Linda Wixon? Something bright and pretty to
wear. That's what she was always wishing for," Muriel ended breathlessly.
Miss Gordon leaned back in the shadow and watched the eager face of the
girl whose hair was growing coppery in the firelight. Then suddenly
Muriel's eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. "I'm trying not to
think how lonely I'll be without Grand-dad," she said, "but somehow I'd
rather go home this first Christmas than anywhere else. I really would."
Then she added ruefully: "Miss Gordon, here I am chattering on just as
though we were _really_ going, and you haven't even said that you like
the plan. Would you rather go somewhere else, for, if you would, I can
visit Faith or Joy, for they have both invited me."
"I really want to go with you to Tunkett, Muriel," was the earnest reply.
"I think it is a beautiful plan. I want to just rest and feel the sweep
of the salt wind, and forget, for a time, that I have the responsibility
of training sixty-two young ladies in the ways that they should go."
Then, as was their wont, these two who understood each other sat quietly
gazing into the fire, dreaming their dreams. To Miss Gordon, who for so
many years had had no one to lean upon, it seemed indeed wonderful to
find someone at last who wanted to plan for her comfort and happiness,
and lonely Muriel felt that she would rather spend this first Christmas
since her grand-dad had gone with the simple folk who had known him and
loved him. Faith and Joy indeed were disappointed when they heard that
their beloved Muriel was not to spend the holidays with them in their New
York homes.
These girls had planned to share their island friend and many were the
surprises they had in store for her, but when they realized how much it
meant to Rilla to go to the little fishing village that she called home,
they did not let her know of the plans they had made for her pleasure,
nor need they be entirely abandoned, merely postponed.
"How I do wish you could both come down to Tunkett for a week-end while I
am there," Muriel exclaimed one day when Joy and Faith had dropped into
her cupola room for a moment.
"Is there a hotel in the town?" Joy asked eagerly.
How Rilla laughed. "Nothing like the one to which Miss Widdemere took us
last week when we were in New York," she said. "However there is an inn
very like the one about which you were reading, Faith, in that magazine
story. In fact, the fishing village might almost have been Tunkett, I do
believe. Perhaps all New England coast towns are much alike."
"That settles it," Faith declared. "I've always wanted to really see with
my own eyes a village like the one in that story, haven't you, Joy?"
Their Dresden China girl laughingly agreed that the one desire of her
life was to visit just such a place, and that, if all went well, they
would surprise Muriel by appearing at the inn in Tunkett for at least one
week-end of the vacation which was but a fortnight away.
"Oh, what jolly fun that will be," Rilla exclaimed. "Girls, I believe
something wonderful is going to happen to me during the Christmas
holidays. I feel it, though I can't tell what it is to be."
"I sincerely hope so," Faith said. Then, after a hesitating moment, she
asked: "Dear, have you ever wished that you might know who your own
father is?"
Muriel's face grew suddenly pale and there were tears in her eyes.
"Why should I want him," she said slowly and in a voice quivering with
emotion, "since he did not care for me?"
Faith's arms were about her. "Dear, dear girl," she said, "do forgive me
for having spoken of your father. I didn't know. I didn't understand."
"Nor do I understand." Muriel smiled through her tears as she held out a
hand to her other dearest friend, who stood silently near, her sweet face
expressing tender sympathy. "I know nothing whatever about my father. If
Grand-dad knew about him, he never told me. He had promised to tell me
all about my girl-mother's marriage when I was eighteen years of age. I
am nearly that now, but Grand-dad is not here. I do not believe that
anyone else knows. I have often wanted to ask Uncle Barney, but since
Grand-dad died I haven't seemed to care. I have felt that if my own
father could desert his baby girl, surely he would not want her when she
was grown."
How deeply Faith regretted that she had spoken to Muriel of her unknown
father, but it was done and could not be helped.
All that day, as Rilla went about her tasks, she could think of nothing
else. How she hoped that some day she would find that she had been
wronging the man whom her girl-mother had loved.
How wonderful it would be, she thought, to have someone who would be her
very own to love her as her grand-dad had loved her. Everyone was kind,
but no one could quite take the place in the heart of Muriel of the three
for whom she prayed ever since she was a child--the girl-mother who had
died, the grand-dad who had sheltered her, and the father who never came.
How she loved them all, and how she longed for them.
Why, just then, she should have thought of her brother-friend she could
not have told, but she did think of him, and she resolved that just as
soon as the lessons for the day were done she would write Gene Beavers
that first letter for which he had so long and patiently waited.
* * * * * * * *
Gene Beavers was just leaving the house in which he lived with his
parents and sister on the outskirts of London when a maid recalled him to
give him the morning mail. She wondered at the sudden brightening of his
expression. He glanced at the several envelopes, tossed all but one back
upon the hall table unopened, slipped that one into his pocket and again
went out. He wanted to read this very first letter from his "storm
maiden" by the stream in the Wainwater Woods. He was on his way to spend
the day with his boon companion, the viscount. Wonderful days they were
that these two spent together, sometimes galloping across country on
horseback and at other times hiking, stopping in lovely secluded places
to rest, read and dream.
A stranger would not have guessed that the lad had so recently been an
invalid, for his face once more was bronzed by the wind and sun, and in
his eagerness to reach his destination, he fairly ran down the deserted
highway. Having reached a sheltered spot, he threw himself down upon the
bank of the stream, took the letter from his pocket and looked admiringly
at the neat and really pretty handwriting. He had known that Muriel did
not intend to send him a letter until she could write well and form her
sentences correctly, but, even so, he was surprised with the contents of
her missive.
"Dear Brother-Friend," he read:
"When I first came here, I felt as one of my white gulls might if after
years of winging through the sunlit air, being swept hither and thither
and yon by restless winds, of dipping into the surf when it would, it
had suddenly found itself in a cage, barred in. But now I am glad that
I was caught and kept in a cage, for I have learned much. I have always
known how to dream, Brother-Friend, but, oh, the wonder of it, for now
I can write my dreams and send them to the far-away place where you
are.
"This cannot be a real letter but I did so want to tell you that the
cage door is to be open for two long weeks, and that I am going with
our dear Miss Gordon, whom you know, to spend the Christmas vacation at
Tunkett. How I wish that you were going to be there, as you were last
year.
"Do you remember the day we raced with Shags on the sand, and your
sister came and Marianne Carnot? How long, long ago that seems.
"The bell calling us to Politeness Class is ringing, and I'll have to
say goodbye for now, but I'll write you from Tunkett and tell you how
everything and everyone looks. You quite won the heart of Brazilla
Mullet. Shall you write to me while I am there?
"Your Sister-Friend,
Rilla of the Storms.
"P. S.--Of course you may show 'The Lonely Pelican' to your new friend
if you wish, although it will not interest a real poet, as Miss Gordon
tells me that Waine Waters truly is.
"M. S."
Leaping to his feet, Gene continued on his way to the cabin hidden in the
depths of the wood, where his comrade, the Viscount of Wainwater, was
impatiently awaiting his coming.
The older man was growing restless. He seldom remained so long in
England, and he was preparing to start on a journey, perhaps to the Nile,
and he wanted Gene to be his traveling companion.