  Brazilla Mullet, the elderly spinster sister of Jabez Mullet, who drove the stage, had been the doctor’s housekeeper for many years. She and her brother occupied the neat little cottage just beyond the hedge, and Jabez, when he was not driving, was gardener for both places. Half an hour after Gene Beavers had sent the note to Windy Island by little sol from the glassed-in end of Doctor Winslow’s veranda he had been eagerly watching the road. Miss Brazilla busied herself in the rooms adjoining that she might hear the boy’s slightest movement. Doctor Winslow had cautioned her that Gene, who was restless because of his prolonged inactivity, must not be permitted to leave the couch, where he was comfortably propped to a position that was half reclining by many pillows. The doctor himself, after having written the note to Captain Ezra, had been suddenly called on an emergency case out at the Life Saving Station on The Point, and that was why Gene had been the one to give instructions concerning the delivery of the message. “What time is it now, Miss Brazilla?” the boy asked. “It’s nigh to eleven, Master Gene,” the housekeeper appeared in the doorway to remark, “an’ I’m hopin’ the pore gal will get here in time for a bite with yo’. In all the years I’ve heerd tell about that child she’s never tuk a meal off Windy Island. ’Twill be a reg’lar party for Rilla, that it will—if she’s let to come. I don’t want to be disappointin’, Master Gene, yo’ and doctor settin’ so much store on her comin’, but I know Cap’n Ezra purty well and a man more sot in his opinion don’t live—not in Tunkett anyhow, an’ many’s the time I’ve heerd him say that his gal should never ever set eyes on city folks, if he could be helpin’ it.” If the elderly spinster, Miss Brazilla, might be said to have a failing it was loquacity, and Gene moved restlessly. Instantly she was at his side. “There now, dearie,” the really kind-hearted woman exclaimed self-rebukingly, “I’d ought to’ve pushed that couch farther to the starboard side o’ this deck.” Then she laughed apologetically. “That salt water language will crop out now’n then, try as I may to talk fine, like city folks. There! Is that better? The sun don’t shine right into your eyes now like it did. Wall, as I was sayin’, if Rilly can come in time to eat with yo’, ’twill be a reg’lar party for her an’——” Poor Gene, realizing that Miss Brazilla was launched again upon another flood of conversation, tried to think of a way to politely interrupt, if an interruption ever can be polite. The word “party” caught his attention. Many a time he had heard his sister Helen say, “It’s never a real party unless there’s ice cream.” Maybe all girls felt that way. The housekeeper was actually turning to leave, having reached a period, and Gene made haste to inquire: “Miss Brazilla, is there any place in Tunkett where we could get some ice cream?” The amazed spinster shook her head, on which the rather sparse red-grey hairs were drawn back and down with oily smoothness. “Why, no, Master Gene, not arter the summer colony folks go. When the hot weather’s on, Mrs. Sol makes it.” “Telephone her, please, Miss Brazilla, and ask her if she couldn’t make some right away now and put strawberries in it. Tell her that she may name her own price.” Miss Mullet lifted her hands in amazement. “Land o’ Goshen!” she ejaculated. “Ice cream with strawberries in October.” Then noting that the lad had dropped back among the pillows and closed his eyes as though he were suddenly very weary, the good woman slipped away to do his bidding, strange as it might seem. “Sick folks take notions,” she said to herself, “but this is the tarnal queerest I ever heerd of.” Half an hour later there was a timid rap on the side door. Miss Brazilla hurried to open it, and, as she had hoped, there stood Muriel Storm. Gene had fallen into a light slumber, which had greatly refreshed him, and when he awakened he heard Muriel’s voice. “Top o’ the morning to you, Storm Maiden,” he called. “Do hurry! I’m eager to see if you look as I remember you.” But she did not, for the Muriel with her long red-brown hair neatly tied back with a wide green ribbon, which Miss Brazilla had made for her into a truly beautiful butterfly bow, did not look quite like his memoried picture of that stormy girl who with long hair wind-blown about her shoulders, had ordered him to leave the Lighthouse Island or be devoured by her dog. Almost shyly the girl, in her neat green gingham dress, paused in the open doorway, hardly knowing what to do. Gene held out a frail white hand. “Won’t you come and shake hands with me?” he asked. “I’m sorry that I can’t come to you, but I have had orders to lie here until mine host decrees otherwise.” The girl, touched by the boy’s paleness, forgot her embarrassment and went toward him, placing her strong brown hand in the one he had stretched forth to greet her. Then, seating herself in the wicker chair nearest, she said: “I hope yo’re forgivin’ me, Mr. Beavers, for makin’ it so that yo’ had to swim.” “It was I who used poor judgment,” the boy told her. “Don’t feel that you were in the least bit to blame.” Then, smiling up at her in his friendliest fashion, he added: “We are only in our teens, you and I, and that’s not so very grown up. Don’t you think you could call me Gene and permit me to call you Muriel? It’s a beautiful name.” “’Twas my mother’s.” The boy thought he had never heard that word spoken with greater tenderness. Shyly, the girl was saying: “An’ I’d be that pleased if yo’ would call me the whole of it Thar’s no one as calls me Muriel. Folks here jest call me Rilly.” “Then I will gladly. Now, Muriel,” the lad leaned on his elbow, “the best way for two people to become acquainted is by asking questions. Won’t you tell me how you pass your time, what books you read, and——” Gene paused, almost startled by the sudden flush that had crimsoned the cheeks of his guest. When it was too late he tried to prevent her from having to make the admission, but falteringly she made it. “I can’t read books,” she said. Then the resolve of the day before gave her new courage, and lifting her head and looking directly into his eyes with an eager expression, she added: “But I’m goin’ to learn. I don’ know how, but I’m goin’ to.” “Of course you are, Muriel,” was his hearty response. “And if I am laid up long in ‘dry dock for repairs,’ as Mr. Jabez Mullet calls my confinement, perhaps you will let me help you. I had to be helped, you know. We all do, just in the beginning.” The lad’s smile was winsome. Then he quickly added: “There are the noon bells from the church tower, and if I’m not mistaken, Miss Brazilla is coming to serve our lunch.” Muriel sprang up when the housekeeper appeared. “Why, Miss Brazilla, me settin’ here and lettin’ yo’ wait on me! Mayn’t I help somehow? I’m real handy at it.” “So you are, Rilly. Fetch that little wicker table over here and stand it near the couch. Then draw your chair and set opposite. Yo’re company today, just like a grand young lady, and yo’ve nothin’ to do but eat.” Muriel went to the far end of the veranda to get the small wicker table, and when she turned she was amazed to see Miss Brazilla and Gene exchanging nods and smiles. What could it mean, the girl wondered. The lunch was daintily served and Gene became so interested in his companion’s tales of storms and wrecks at sea, simply yet dramatically told, that he ate far more heartily than he would have done alone. Miss Brazilla made no comment, but she was secretly pleased. Having cleared the table, she surprised Muriel by bringing in two dishes heaped with ice cream in which were preserved strawberries. Gene Beavers was to pay a fabulous price for that out-of-season dessert, but when he saw the glad light dawning in the hazel eyes of his guest he decided it was well worth it. “I only had ice cream once before,” she confessed, “an’ that was when Mis’ Sol had some left over that was like to melt.” After lunch Muriel told her host that he ought to sleep a while, and, when she assured him that she could stay all afternoon, the truly weary lad consented to rest, while Rilla helped Miss Brazilla in the kitchen. An hour later when the lad awakened, refreshed, he saw that Muriel was again in the comfortable wicker chair at his side, looking with great interest at the beautifully colored pictures in a large book that she held. She glanced up glowingly when she heard a movement on the couch. “The readin’ in it is about the sea, I reckon, from the pictures of boats and pirates,” she told him. “It is indeed,” Gene exclaimed with enthusiasm. “That’s Treasure Island. If you’ll prop me up more I’ll read to you, if you wish.” Some time later, when Dr. Winslow returned, he found Gene reading aloud from his favorite book, while Muriel, leaning forward, listened hungrily. “Well, little Nurse Rilla,” the good man exclaimed, “our patient is much better, I can see that at a glance. I’m sorry to hurry you away, but your boatswain Sol is waiting for you down at the gate. Your grand-dad told him to sail you back to Windy Island along about this time, but you’re to come again and often.” That night Captain Ezra pushed his armchair back from the table, and while he was lighting his pipe he looked at his “gal,” his eyes twinkling. “Rilly,” he said, “yo’ve been gabblin’ faster’n chain lightnin’ one hour by the clock, an’ things are sort o’ muddled in my mind. I dunno, for sure sartin, whether it’s Billy Bones or Gene Beavers yo’ve been over to the mainland a visitin’.” “Both of ’em, thanks to yo’, dear ol’ Grand-dad,” Muriel said. Then, kissing him good-night, she went up to her little loft room. But when she was snugly in her bed it was not of Billy Bones that she dreamed. |
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