  The weather clerk may have been purposely perplexing during those first days of December, for, after having imprisoned Rilla and her grandfather on Windy Island for two long, inclement weeks, they awakened one morning to find a gleaming blue sky that merged on the far horizon with the deeper turquoise of the ocean. A fortnight had passed since she had received the letter from Gene, and yet he had not come. Because of the rains, Rilla and her grandfather had not again visited the town. There was oil enough in the tank to last another month, nor was there anyone in Tunkett whom they wished to see. Of course, there had been no mail, for little Sol had sailed close to the island one day and Rilla, hailing him, had asked him to bring the letters if any should arrive. She was expecting two, one from Gene and one from Uncle Barney, and indeed her kind Uncle Lem now and then wrote to her or sent a picture postcard of some interesting building or park in the great city where he resided ten months out of every year. But the heart of Rilla was filled with a joyful anticipation on that first sparkling day after the storms. As soon as her tasks indoors were finished she called to her shaggy playfellow and, donning her crimson tam and sweater-coat, away she raced toward the outer cliff. There she paused and seemed to be watching for someone or something. A moment later, her eyes gladdened and she leaned forward eagerly. A flock of gleaming white-winged seagulls appeared and Muriel, taking from her pocket a paper bag, opened it and tossed a fragment of bread into the air. Instantly there was a rush of wings and the birds circled and swooped about her, catching the bits of food as they fell. Now and then a piece dropped far down the cliff and two or three birds would dive through the air, each hoping to be the first to obtain it. When the bag was empty Muriel turned to find Shags lying some distance back of her, his head low on his paws, his limpid brown eyes watching every move that she made. Muriel had taught him that he must be very quiet when she was feeding the birds, but when she tossed the crumpled bag out upon the breeze and stood watching it fall into the sea, Shags seemed to know that he need be still no longer. Leaping to his feet, he joined his mistress and then together they raced along on the top of the cliff to the side of the island nearest the town. Again the girl paused, this time shading her eyes as she gazed out over the dancing blue waters. “Thar’s a sail comin’, Shagsie, ol’ dog,” she said, “but that’s nothin’ onusual. ’Pears like I’m ’spectin’ somethin’ to happen every day, when it used to be nothin’ ever happened, much, that was different. I cal’late that it’s some fisherman late in startin’ for the Outer Ledge. Sam Peters, like as not. He’s powerful shiftless when it comes to gettin’ started.” But, nevertheless, as the girl sauntered around the top of the cliff and toward the light, she glanced often at the sailboat which seemed to be bearing directly toward Windy Island. At last her expression of hopeful eagerness changed to one of radiant certainty. “Shagsie,” she cried exultantly, “it is little Sol’s boat, arter all. I reckon he’s fetchin’ some mail. Come on, ol’ dog. Let’s race to the dock.” The girl and dog ran joyfully along the top of the cliff, but at the top of the steep flight of stairs that led to the beach Rilla paused and looked intently at the boat, which, ahead of a brisk wind, was scudding into port. “Thar’s some-un else in it,” she said in a low voice, “and—and, oh-o, Shagsie, it is Gene Beavers. He’s come!” The passenger in little Sol’s sailboat was indeed the lad whom Rilla had expected. When he landed on the small and mossy dock over which the waves often washed he was met by a girl whose beautiful face reminded him of sunrise, so radiant was the expression shining there, but, after little Sol had been paid and told to return promptly at five, the girl’s joy at the arrival of her friend changed to alarm when she noted how very pale he was. “Yo’ oughtn’t to’ve made the v’yage yet, I reckon,” she said. “Yo’ look all tuckered out. Why did Uncle Lem let yo’ come so soon? Yo’d ought t’ be in bed still, that’s whar yo’d ought t’ be, Gene Beavers.” “Storm Maiden, stop scolding me! A fine welcome you’re giving me. I thought—I hoped that you might be pleased to see me, and now I’m almost afraid that you’re going to set your dog on me.” This was said teasingly, but it was answered by a reproachful expression in the clear hazel eyes of the girl. Then, as Captain Ezra, at that moment, appeared at the top of the steep steps, the lad went up two at a time, perhaps with some idea of showing Muriel how strong he really was, but he had overestimated his strength, for when the top was reached the captain’s strong arms were all that kept him from falling. “Boy,” the old man said, “what in tarnal creation are yo’ cruisin’ around for in rough water wi’ yer mast broken and yer rudder gone?” The lad looked up from the bench outside of the light to which the captain had led him. “Am I that much of a wreck?” he asked, smiling whimsically. Then he confessed: “I believe I had overestimated my strength. Lying there all day I had no way of telling how weak I really was. I used to get so tired of doing nothing and I thought if only I could get back here where the salt air is so exhilarating maybe I’d get strong sooner, but I’d better be taking the train back tonight, I’m thinking.” Muriel had gone at once to the kitchen and had a roaring fire in the stove and the kettle on to boil when the old man and the lad entered. How Gene laughed, a little later, when, having been made comfortable in a high-backed wooden rocker, which had been drawn close to the fire, his “storm maiden” again handed him a thick cup filled with a steaming beverage. “Muriel,” he said, “you and I seem destined to have morning teas together. Do you recall our first one down on the beach when you threatened to shoot me?” The girl whirled about and put her finger to her lips; then glancing at her grandfather, whose back was toward them, she said in a low voice: “Don’ tell that. I don’ know what possessed me that day. I reckon I was that angered, bein’ as yo’ wouldn’t take orders.” “I’ll mind you from now on forever after, Muriel, good friend,” the lad began. Then added with sudden seriousness: “I realize from my recent misadventures that I am not possessed of any too sound a judgment.” A happy day they had, although Gene spent nearly all of it in the rocker near the fire. As the clock chimed the hour of four, the lad arose as he said: “I ought to be getting back to town. I would better take the evening train if——” Captain Ezra gently pushed the lad down into the chair. “Tarnation sakes!” he exclaimed. “Do yo’ reckon I’d let a friend of Doctor Lem’s leave this craft with underpinnin’s as shaky as yours are? Not by a long sight! Yo’ oughtn’t to’ve come, but, bein’ as yo’re here yo’re goin’ to stay a spell.” Then the boy confessed. “But Doctor Winslow does not even know that I came. He was to be gone for a few days and so I—I——” The old sea captain grunted. “He’ll know soon enough. When little Sol comes, give him a message for his ma to wire back to the big city. Tell Doctor Lem that yo’re goin’ to try Rilla’s nursin’ for a while.” If there was a twinkle in the grey eyes of the old man, there was also a heaviness in his heart. |
|
