  The High Cliff Seminary was surely well named, for from the windows of its grey stone turrets one had a sweeping view of the surrounding country with its lovely woodlands, its wide meadow where grain was yellowing or stacked in the sun, with here and there a nestling town, a suburb of the big city that was several miles nearer the sea. Directly beneath were the sheer cliffs and then the broad, busy Hudson. On the sun porch, one Saturday afternoon in September, a group of girls was gathered. It was evident that they were all old friends, as indeed they were since they had attended High Cliff Seminary the year previous. Among them were Faith Morley, Gladys Goodsell and Marianne Carnot. Leaning back in a comfortable cushioned wicker chair, Marianne looked at the other through partly closed eyes. “Your democracy in America is crude, n’est-ce pas?” she said, shrugging her shoulders and looking toward the far end of the long glassed-in veranda. There, all alone, stood a girl dressed in dark blue whose red-brown hair was neatly fastened at her neck. With hands idly clasped in front of her, she watched the boats plying up and down the great river, and, oh, the loneliness, the bleak, grey loneliness in the heart of the girl. Without a glance at the curious group at the other end of the sun porch, she soon turned and went within. “Well, I confess democracy is carried rather far in this particular instance,” the plump, good-natured Gladys Goodsell remarked. “Not that I care greatly. We do not have to associate with her, whoever she is, unless we so desire.” “Doesn’t anyone know who she is?” Catherine Lambert inquired. The questioner did not look at the French girl, nor would she have been able to interpret the meaning of the slight sneer that appeared on the dark, handsome face for a fleeting second even if she had seen it. Marianne had told no one that she had met Muriel the year before on Windy Island, and Muriel herself, though conscious of the presence of Marianne Carnot, was so numbed with grief that she cared little that she was being snubbed. The coming of that “crude island girl” to this fashionable school had angered Marianne, but the memory of Gene’s very evident preference for Muriel’s companionship had aroused in the heart of the French girl a desire to make the other suffer, but she would bide her time. “Is it true that she cannot speak the English language correctly?” The tone of the questioner was horrified in the extreme. Faith Morley nodded, adding hastily (because her heart was kind): “But that in itself is not vital, for surely she can learn to speak correctly, but—but of course her family is rather impossible.” “A lighthouse-keeper’s grand-daughter!” This from Adelaine Stuart, whose family tree was always shown to each new pupil at High Cliff, if she chanced to be one whom Adelaine wished to impress. That her father was imprisoned for having robbed widows and orphans with his wildcat schemes she did not tell. “But, Faith, you know something of the girl’s story. Why don’t you tell it?” This from Gladys. Faith hesitated. Would Helen wish her to tell, and yet surely there was nothing in what she knew that ought to be kept secret. “Well, what I know is not much,” Faith confessed. “Muriel Storm is an acquaintance of Gene Beavers and——” Exclamations of amazement interrupted the speaker. Conscious of the shock and surprise her statement had caused in the group, Faith hurried on to explain. “You remember Gene had to leave college last fall because of a collapse of some kind.” Several nodded. “Well, he then went to Tunkett, a sea-coast town, to recuperate, and while there he met the keeper of the light who was Muriel’s grandfather. They did a good deal, Helen told me, to help Gene regain his health.” This last, rather defiantly. Faith, unlike the others, was not a snob at heart. Nor, for that matter, was Gladys. “Poor girl,” she now put in. “I do feel sorry for her. Anyone who watches her for five minutes can tell that she has a broken heart.” “Why that? What has happened to her?” Adelaine Stuart was curious. “I wonder if any of you recall that terrible electric storm that we had last June,” Faith continued. “I remember how it crashed over New York. Old-timers said there had not been one as severe in twenty years. Well, it was during that storm that the lighthouse was struck by lightning, the old man was instantly killed and the girl hurled beneath the debris. She was unconscious hours later when she was finally rescued. All summer long she has been in a hospital in the city under the care of some physician whose home was formerly in that same sea-coast town. He it is who is sending her here.” They saw that the girl about whom they were talking left the veranda, apparently without having noticed them. Faith went on: “Years ago Doctor Winslow’s sister and our Miss Gordon were friends.” Miss Gordon was the charming middle-aged woman who presided over High Cliffs. “Then this Muriel Storm not only belongs to a class of fisherfolk, but she is also a charity pupil.” Adelaine Stuart tried to show by her tone and expression the pride and scorn which should be exhibited by one possessed of a family tree. “I shall write my mother,” she concluded, “and if I am not much mistaken Miss Gordon will consider it greatly to her advantage to at once dismiss that girl.” “I shall do the same,” Phyllis Dexter echoed. “We ought not to be forced to breathe the same air with—with——” “Une bourgeoise,” Marianne concluded the sentence for her. The others did not notice when Faith Morley slipped away. She rebuked herself for not having thought of it before. Surely her dear friend Helen Beavers would wish her to be kind to the girl whose grandfather had been kind to Gene. Faith paused outside of a room on the third floor of High Cliff Seminary and listened. Surely someone within was sobbing. Again her loving heart rebuked her. How many, many hours during the last week that the island girl had been in their midst had she sobbed like this and no one had come to comfort her? Muriel was in none of Faith’s classes and so she seldom saw her. Nor did she eat with the other pupils in the main dining hall, for, temporarily, she was seated at the right of Miss Gordon at the teachers’ table, there being a vacant chair which soon would be occupied by Miss Humphrey, the English teacher, whose leave of absence had not yet expired. The problem of finding a seat for poor Muriel at first had been a hard one for Miss Gordon to solve, for she knew full well how heartless and snobbish were many of the daughters of her wealthy patrons. When she received a message from Miss Humphrey stating that she would not return for another fortnight, the principal talked the matter over with the faculty and Muriel was then invited to sit with the teachers until the absent one should return. This would give Miss Gordon time to discover if any of the pupils were kindly disposed toward Muriel, and if so, she could then be placed at one of the three long tables in the main dining hall at which the young ladies were seated. The teachers’ table was in a curtained alcove, and so many of the girls were not even aware of the fact that Muriel dined there. Moreover, it had been Doctor Lem’s wish that the island girl should receive private instruction, and as Miss Humphrey was the only teacher whose time could be arranged to make this plan possible, Muriel’s studies had not as yet begun. Every day Miss Gordon sent for the girl to come to her room at the twilight hour. At first she did this for the sake of Doctor Lem, whose sister had been her dear friend, but after a time she did it gladly, for she found in the soul of this untutored girl much that it would be a joy to awaken and develop. But, of course, there were many hours every day when Muriel was left alone. Oh, so alone. While the other girls were at their classes she wandered about the extensive, parklike grounds that grew wilder and more beautiful, so Muriel thought, a quarter of a mile down the Hudson and away from the school. There she found a spot on an overhanging ledge where a young pine tree was clinging, none too securely, to the bank, for after each storm the earth beneath it loosened and a day was coming when that small pine and the ledge on which it stood would be hurled down the steep cliff into the blue waters seething far below. The cliff on which the light had stood the island girl had thought high, but this was a sheer wall of rock that rose twice as far from the water toward the sky. The little pine had grown very dear to the girl who so loved nature, and often she would sit on the ledge, her cheek pressed against the rough bark, her eyes gazing far up the river, seeing not the boats of all kinds that were plying back and forth, hearing not the discordant sounds of screeching tugs or warning whistles, but picturing in memory the island she so loved and the lighthouse standing as it had for so many, many years, and tears gathered in her eyes as, in a dream, she saw her grandfather again as he had looked on that never-to-be-forgotten day, and then suddenly she would sob and hold her arms out, calling, “Grand-dad! Grand-dad, come and get your Rilly gal!” On one of these occasions she had cried herself weary, and for a moment she had slept on the little overhanging ledge. Her grand-dad seemed to come to her and say so plainly that she heard his voice: “Fust mate, didn’t you’n me agree that we’d trust the Skipper at the helm, knowin’ His guidin’ to be for the best?” “Yeah, Grand-dad,” she said aloud, sitting up and looking about. Then she rose and drew back, shuddering, for she had been very close to the edge of the overhanging ledge. How easy it would be to fall off and—— The girl turned and ran all the way back to the school. That had been the day before and today she was staying indoors, half afraid to visit the ledge. She sat up and looked toward the door when she heard a knock. “Come in!” she called, leaping to her feet. Her visitor, she supposed, would be either Miss Gordon or the maid of that corridor. When Muriel saw a strange girl in the hall she felt rebellious, believing that she had called out of unkind curiosity, but Faith held out her right hand as she said graciously: “Miss Storm, I am Faith Morley, one of your schoolmates. I am sorry that I have not been up to see you sooner. Helen Beavers and Gene are dear friends of mine, as perhaps you do not know, and I am convinced that they would wish me to be your friend, too.” Then, feeling that the sentiment could be put in an even more kindly way, she added impulsively: “Truly, I want to be your friend. May I?” Tears gathered slowly in the clear hazel eyes and the lips that replied quivered: “Thanks, but I dunno why you’d be carin’ for my frien’ship. If you do, though, I’m glad.” They sat in chairs near each other, and Faith, looking for the first time with eyes that really saw Muriel, decided that she had a most interesting face. There was far more depth of character expressed in it than in many of the pretty doll faces of the pupils at High Cliffs. For one wild second the visitor groped for a subject of conversation that would interest this island girl. Of course she might have gossiped about the other pupils in the school, but Faith had been taught never to talk of persons, but rather of things and events. She now recalled having heard Helen say that Muriel had never been farther inland than Tunkett, while she, Faith, had circled the globe with her parents two years before. Then her eyes fell upon the copy of “Treasure Island,” Muriel’s gift from Gene. “Do you enjoy that book?” the visitor asked. “I can’t read,” Muriel replied simply, “but I love the sea an’ the life on it. Cap’n Barney often told me tales of sea adventure an’ Gene Beavers read to me out of this book.” Faith’s dark eyes lighted. “Oh, Muriel,” she exclaimed, “my father gave me such an interesting book about the sea for my birthday, and I’m reading it now. I’d just love to read it aloud to you if you would enjoy hearing it. Of course it will come in your reading course, in time. Shall I get the book?” There was real eagerness in Faith’s voice, and also in her heart, for she yearned to help this girl who as yet hadn’t been given a chance. Muriel was indeed pleased with the suggestion and so Faith went at once to her room, returning a few moments later with a beautifully illustrated copy of “Two Years Before the Mast.” “Muriel,” she announced when she opened the door, this time without knocking, “I wonder if you know how lucky you are. You have the nicest room in the school. This round cupola room with so many windows, and such a sweeping view in three directions, is the one that many of us hope each year will be given to us.” Then she laughed. “Honestly, I do not eavesdrop, but I happened to be in the reception room the first day of this term and heard Adelaine Stuart’s mother offering to pay extra if her spoiled darling could have it. But Miss Gordon said it had been reserved for you. “Think of that, young lady. Moreover, you are doubly lucky, for, not only have you the nicest room in the school, but you are invited to spend an hour every evening with the idol of all our hearts, the adorable Miss Gordon.” Muriel smiled at her new friend’s enthusiasm. “’Twa’n’t last long, though,” she replied. “I mean, Miss Gordon’s just bein’ kind to me now because she knows as I’m lonesome an’ she’n Uncle Lem are friends.” Faith looked pityingly at the girl whose shadowed eyes plainly showed that many hours had been spent in tears. “Muriel,” she suggested, “suppose you lie on the window seat. Pile those pillows under your head and try to rest while I read. I’m afraid you are holding yourself too tense these days, as our gym teacher tells us.” Muriel did as she was bidden and Faith continued: “Now, take a deep breath and drop down on the pillows with every muscle relaxed. Listen idly while I read until you fall asleep. I really think that restful sleep is what you most need.” Then Faith read for an hour. Muriel was greatly interested, but she was also very weary, and after a time she did fall into the first restful sleep that she had had since she arrived at the school. Faith drew a cover over her new friend and stole out, but she did not go directly to her own room. Instead she went to the office of Miss Gordon. |
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