  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. |
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