  That had been the first of many hours of practice on the tennis courts. Running races with Shags and rowing had been the only two outdoor sports Muriel had known. For that reason, perhaps, she thoroughly enjoyed tennis, and how her friends did enjoy watching her. Every afternoon from four to five o’clock they had the court to themselves, that being the hour when Marianne Carnot was practicing her vocal lessons on the other side of the school. These three friends did not wish Marianne to even suspect that Muriel was being drilled. Not that they had any hope of winning the game, which was but a fortnight away. In fact, it would be unwise to permit so new a player as Muriel to even take part, they decided. Joy Kiersey, who usually played with Catherine Lambert, had been ill, and was not yet strong enough to practice, although she assured the girls that she would not fail them on the day of the tournament. “We have a strong team,” Faith told Muriel one noon at lunch, “when Joy is with us, but not so strong when she isn’t.” “I haven’t met Joy Kiersey as yet, have I?” Rilla said this slowly, thoughtfully, and hence more correctly. Faith was pleased, but made no comment. “No,” she replied. “Joy did not return at the beginning of the term, and although she has been in High Cliffs for a week now, she remains in her room most of the time. We thought that we would call upon her this afternoon during the free period, and I planned asking you to accompany us.” Muriel shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. Then twinkles appeared in her clear hazel eyes. “I dunno how to make a call. We haven’t had that yet in politeness.” Faith, however, did not smile. “This afternoon, dear, you follow me and do just what I do and then, at least, you will be as correct a guest as I am.” “Miss Gordon said that we might go,” Gladys leaned forward to remark, “and Joy is eager to have a real visit with us.” “We haven’t had an opportunity since she came to confer about the game.” This from Catherine. “Maybe she’d ruther I didn’t come.” Faith looked reproachfully at her friend, then said softly that no one else might hear: “Rilla, you are forgetting our new rule. Think a sentence before you say it.” Muriel flashed a bright smile at the speaker, thought a moment, then repeated: “Perhaps your friend, Joy Kiersey, would rather that I did not come.” “Not so, Rilla.” Faith was glad to be able to add truly: “Joy asked especially about you. She was watching us yesterday as we returned from the court and she inquired who you were, and what do you suppose she said?” “I can’t guess. Something dreadful, like’s not—I mean—I suppose.” “Not a bit of it! Joy asked who the girl was who carried herself as though she were a princess.” Muriel looked blank. “Who was she talking about? If ’twas me, then she was just makin’ fun.” “No, dear. Joy wouldn’t do that. You don’t realize it, of course, but there are times when you carry yourself, shall I say proudly? Or——” Faith hesitated, groping for a word, then laughingly confessed, “I don’t know just how to express it.” “As though she had a family tree like Adelaine Stuart,” Gladys put in. Muriel laughed; then said earnestly: “I come from a long line of good, honest New England seafaring folk and I’m proud of it. My grand-dad stood erect, the way I suppose you mean that I do. Summer folk often spoke of it. I remember one man visitin’ the light said grand-dad was like a Viking. Queer how I remembered that word all this time. I suppose because I wondered what it meant.” “Oh, I know all about Vikings,” Gladys boasted. “Listen and you shall hear. Between the eighth and eleventh centuries the coasts of the British Isles were visited by the Norsemen, called Vikings, or sea-rovers, who contributed much to the romantic history of medieval Europe.” “My! What a lot we know,” Catherine Lambert teased as she beamed across the table, and Gladys merrily retorted: “Well, why shouldn’t I know it today, since I only learned it yesterday. But don’t ask me anything about it next week.” Then, as the signal was given, the girls arose and left the dining hall. Little did Muriel guess that these dear friends had planned the call upon Joy that she might have an actual experience that would fit her for the dreaded class in politeness. The afternoon tea was a delightful affair. Joy, who seemed to Muriel to be the embodiment of loveliness, welcomed them to her sunny, flower-filled room with a graciousness which at once won the heart of the island girl. “Miss Joy Kiersey, may I present my friend Miss Muriel Storm?” was the form of introduction chosen. “I am indeed glad to make the acquaintance of so dear a friend of our Faith,” was the sincere response as Joy extended her hand and clasped that of the new member of their little clan. “Now, everybody find a place to curl up somewhere and let’s chat for half an hour while the kettle boils. Dear Miss Gordon granted a special dispensation today and yonder on the tea table is seen the flame of my alcohol lamp that will soon persuade the tiny teakettle to start its song.” “Oh, what an adorable teakettle that is! I love copper things, don’t you, Muriel?” Gladys exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that the island girl might not be familiar with things antique. Faith replied for her friend, then added: “Joy’s latest hobby, it is quite evident, is collecting baskets. You have a dozen new ones, I do believe.” Their hostess nodded, and pointing to a large, round and nearly flat basket lying near the hearth: “I found that in Nevada last summer when we were visiting Lake Tahoe. It was made by the Washoe Indians and I think that I prize it most of all, and yet that Washoe water bottle on the mantel is interesting as a curiosity.” After the bottle-shaped basket had been admired Gladys asked: “Did you find people different in the West?” “I like the real Westerner,” Joy replied, “but there was one thing that was always like a discord to me, and that was the manner of introduction used by many of them. They say, ‘Meet my friend.’ It is so harsh and so abrupt. If they would say, ‘I would like you to meet my friend,’ it would seem more gracious.” Muriel, listening, resolved that she would never use that crude form of introduction. “Hark!” Catherine Lambert said softly. “I hear a voice calling to us.” Joy uncurled from the big chair which the girls had insisted that she occupy. “Oh, the little copper teakettle is singing.” Then to Faith, “Will you pour today, Miss Morley?” No one looked at Muriel, and as she did in all things as her friends did, the serving of tea and wafers passed without a mishap. When the bell in the corridor announced the hour of five o’clock Faith rose. “Time to depart,” she said. Then to their hostess, “Joy, I am so glad that you are better. We have had a delightful time at your tea party and shall hope to see you soon in Pickle Pantry.” This was the name that Faith jokingly gave the room that she shared with Gladys, for that maiden being extremely fond of sweet pickles, always had a bottle of them stowed away in most unexpected places. “Girls,” Joy said remorsefully, “we haven’t made a single plan for the game. However, I’ll be at the court tomorrow at four.” As Faith and Muriel ascended the stairs toward the cupola room, whither they were going for a half-hour review of spelling, the former asked: “Isn’t Joy a dear?” “I love her,” Muriel said. Then she asked: “Are you sure she is real?” Faith turned with puzzled eyes. “Real? Do you mean sincere?” The island girl shook her head. “No, indeed, I know she is that! I mean that she looks like the gold and white fairy folk Uncle Barney used to tell about—and they always disappeared.” Faith smiled. “Joy is our Dresden China girl, and, oh, Muriel, how I do hope she will grow strong. Her mother took her West last year believing the invigorating air of the Rockies would help her; but even now she hasn’t the strength that we who love her desire. The world has need of girls like our Joy,” she concluded. Joy Kiersey, to the delight of her friends, appeared at the court next afternoon. Her soft, golden hair was like an aureole of sunshine about her head, for when she began to play she tossed her pale blue tam on a bench, where earlier she had flung her sweater-coat of the same color. Joy and Catherine played singles for a while, the two being the experts of the team. Faith, Gladys and Muriel sat nearby watching with admiring eyes. Time after time Joy was able to smash a ball over the net in such a manner that it fell dead before Catherine could return it. “That’s our only hope,” Faith confided to Muriel, “that play of Joy’s! It’s a trick that her Harvard brother taught her and, watch as closely as we may, we cannot acquire it. Her brother, it seems, made Joy promise that she would not teach it to the other girls unless it might be in an emergency of some kind.” “If Marianne Carnot and Adelaine Stuart are to play against Joy and Catherine,” Muriel said, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, “they will have to be wonderful players to win.” “You would think so,” Gladys chimed in, “but you have never seen Marianne run. She seems to be everywhere at once. It doesn’t matter on what part of the court we place a ball, there that French girl is, ready to return it, often with a volley, and her aim is true. However, Joy does excel in the smash stroke, and so, if she is strong enough to play, we may win.” Soon Joy declared that she wanted to rest and watch while the others played. Faith buttoned the girl who had been ill into her blue sweater-coat and then wrapped a soft golden scarf about her, although Joy declared that she did not need it. “You’re warm now,” Faith told her, “but there’s a decided nip in the air today, and we must be careful of our champion.” At first Muriel was self-conscious, for she knew that Joy’s sweet blue eyes were watching her, not critically but with interest. Suddenly, however, her attention was attracted by the falling of the ball on the extreme opposite side of the court. Of course Catherine would run for it, Muriel thought, but when she saw that maiden slip, Muriel ran as though her feet were shod with the wings of the wind. Over the net the ball went and Catherine was ready to volley it back when Gladys returned it. Joy wanted to shout her delight. How she longed to sing out: “Girls, Marianne may be able to run, but Muriel flies!” But, instead she kept very quiet. She saw that the island girl was beginning to forget herself, and she did not wish to say anything that would cause her self-consciousness to return. Soon Joy realized that she had over-estimated her own strength, for a sense of weariness was creeping over her. She rose, meaning to tell the girls that she had better go to her room, but she fell back on the bench, her face pale. Joy had fainted. Faith, rebuking herself for having permitted the frail girl to play at all, was quickly at her side, as were the others. Joy soon opened her eyes and found her head resting on Faith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she said. Then with a sigh she concluded: “I guess I’ll have to give up trying to play in the tournament.” “Never mind, Joy dear. We would far rather have you regain your strength slowly than win all of the tennis honors that could come to us,” Faith assured her. With the assistance of loving arms, Joy returned to the school and was soon made comfortable in her padded blue silk kimono. Muriel and Gladys brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, while Catherine went kitchenward to fill the copper teakettle with boiling water. The next day Joy felt as well as she had before, but the girls were unanimous in declaring that she must not play tennis again until spring. Then it was that Joy made a resolution. |
|
