  When Muriel Storm returned from the hike to the woodlands and found upon her desk a letter from Gene Beavers she did indeed rejoice, and without stopping to remove her hiking apparel, she curled up on her window seat to read the missive, which, as usual, was couched in the simplest words. The two weeks of tutoring which Muriel had received from Faith had helped her to read with far greater ease. The lad told of his long illness which had resulted from the cold, stormy weather, the rough voyage and the damp, foggy climate of London. He had seen nothing of the city since his arrival, but even though they were living in one of the fashionable outlying districts, he could hear the distant roar of the traffic, and now he yearned to be back on Windy Island, where only were to be heard the sounds of nature. When Gene wrote that letter he knew nothing of the tragedy of the lighthouse, for although Faith had mentioned it in a letter to Helen, his sister had thought best not to sadden him with news that might be a shock to him, for she well knew how greatly he admired the old man who had been keeper of the light. However, she had been glad to tell him that Muriel Storm was attending the High Cliff Seminary. This did not really surprise him, for often he had heard Doctor Winslow say that, as soon as he could convert the old sea captain to his point of view, he, at his own expense, intended sending the girl, of whom he was fond, to some good boarding school. Little did Muriel dream that Gene’s proud mother had sent for him that she might get him away from the degrading influence of the fisherfolk with whom he had been staying and about whom she had heard from Marianne’s father, who was a business friend of Mr. Beavers. Then for months she positively forbade the boy to write to the “island girl,” but at length, when his illness lasted so long, the mother consented to permit Gene to write if he would promise to remain in England until he was twenty-one. By that time he would have forgotten that daughter of the common people, for she, of course, would be unable to travel, and so they would not meet. For a long time after the reading of the epistle Muriel sat with the letter lying in her lap as she gazed with unseeing eyes at the busy Hudson. If only she knew how to write! As yet she had never answered one of Gene’s letters, nor had he expected a reply. Of course, Faith, Gladys or Catherine Lambert, all dear friends, would gladly pen a letter at her dictation, but that would not be quite the same. She wanted to write the very first letter all by herself. She wondered how long it would be before she could learn. It was nearing five o’clock when there came a rap-i-tap upon her door, a signal meaning that Faith awaited without. In reply to Rilla’s “Come in!” the door opened. “Muriel Storm, I do believe that you have been day-dreaming again! Why haven’t you removed your hiking togs? I came up to tell you that Miss Widdemere wishes us to gather in the study hall at five-fifteen for the first class of the year in politeness.” The island girl sprang up and hastily began to change her costume. “A class in politeness, is it?” she repeated, in a puzzled tone of voice. “What does one have to be learnin’ in that kind of a class?” Faith sat on the window seat to wait until her friend was ready to accompany her. “Oh, it’s a sort of society stunt, so to speak,” she explained. “We practice curtsies for grace, make seven different varieties of calls, more or less, are taught what to do with our hands and feet, how to be a hostess and how to be a guest. Oh, yes, and what to do and what not to do if we’re ever presented to a queen.” Faith was purposely exaggerating. She really believed the class in politeness rather unnecessary, since the young ladies came from homes where they learned from babyhood all that they would need to know. She had forgotten for the moment that Muriel had not had these same home advantages. “Oh, I wish I didn’t have to be goin’ to it,” the island girl said as she turned away from the mirror, again dressed in her dark blue school uniform. “I’ll be that awkward, an’ I don’t know nothin’ about manners.” Her voice was so truly distressed and the expression on her face so tragic that Faith sprang up from the window seat and, slipping a protecting arm about her friend, she said: “Dear, I’ll ask Miss Widdemere to excuse you today; that is, just let you watch the others, and then, this evening, I’ll come up to your room and teach you the curtsy. It would hardly be fair to ask you to begin with the others when many of them practiced during the whole of last year.” Faith had suddenly recalled overhearing a conversation when she was on her way to the cupola room. Adelaine Stuart and the French girl had been just ahead of her and she had distinctly heard the former say: “If it is your desire to humiliate that lighthouse person wait until she has to take the part of hostess in politeness class. That will show her up before the whole school.” The rest of the sentence Faith had not heard, as she had passed the two schemers with her head held high, but when she came to think it over she wondered why Marianne Carnot wished to harm Rilla, whom she barely knew. Faith resolved to stay close to Muriel to protect her, if she could, from whatever humiliation Adelaine and Marianne might be planning, and it was indeed lucky for the island girl that she had so staunch a friend. Faith was glad to find that the Mistress of the Manners Class was still in her office, and thither she led Muriel. The young teacher glanced up and bade them enter. Then Faith asked: “Miss Widdemere, have you met our new pupil, Muriel Storm?” There was a brightening expression in the kind grey eyes back of the large, dark-rimmed glasses. The teacher advanced, her right hand extended. “No, indeed, and I am most pleased to meet you. A lucky new pupil you are to have the friendship of our Faith.” This with a loving glance at the girl who stood at Muriel’s side. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks!” Miss Widdemere’s glance was puzzled, though not unkindly critical. It was not customary for girls from the North to say “ma’am,” but perhaps this new pupil was a Southerner. The teacher was even more perplexed when Faith beckoned to Gladys Goodsell, who stood near awaiting her friend, and said: “Will you take Muriel to the classroom? I wish to speak with Miss Widdemere for a moment.” When the door was closed, in as few words as possible Faith told the tragic story of Muriel’s coming to High Cliffs. “She has never had an opportunity to learn the ways of social life, Miss Widdemere,” the girl said earnestly, “but when you know her better you will think her very unusual, I am sure.” Then, as she was eager to create a favorable impression, she added: “Muriel has beautiful fancies and our Miss Gordon believes that she is to be a real poet some day.” “What a loyal friend your friends have in you, Faith? What is your request?” It was granted as soon as heard. “Muriel may listen and watch,” the teacher declared, “but we will not ask her to take part until you tell me that you have coached her sufficiently in private.” Then, as the bell in the corridor was announcing that laggards must make haste, these two went to the study hall, where the pupils were assembled. Some were seated on the desk tops, others standing in groups chatting, but when Miss Widdemere appeared all arose, and facing her, made deep curtsies. Muriel alone remained erect, not knowing what to do. Marianne, gazing across the room through half-closed lids, smiled and nudged her companion. “She’s as graceful as a hitching post,” Adelaine replied, loud enough to be heard by several who stood near. Muriel felt their gaze and flushed with embarrassment. “The young ladies will now arrange their chairs in a large semi-circle, the vacant space in the center to represent a parlor.” Miss Widdemere waited until the confusion was over and the pupils seated before continuing: “We will now select a hostess and ten guests to attend an afternoon tea. Whom do you name as hostess, Phyllis?” She had turned toward that young girl because she had risen. “I name Muriel Storm,” said Phyllis, who had been well coached by the girls who sat next to her. Miss Widdemere sent a keen glance in their direction, and she said, rather coldly: “Young ladies, partly because of Muriel Storm’s recent bereavement, we are not expecting her to share in our imaginary social functions for a month at least.” Marianne Carnot added in an undertone heard only by those about her, “And the other ‘partly’ is that she couldn’t if we did expect it.” Faith eventually was chosen as hostess and Muriel intently watched every move made by her friend. How graceful she was and how gracious! A slip of a Japanese girl, who was the daughter of the chef of the school, appeared dressed in an attractive native costume and played the part of maid for this class. When she was older she, too, would be trained for the sphere that she was to fill. That evening Faith found her friend both discouraged and homesick. “It’s out of place I am among you all,” she said. “I’d ruther be back with my seagulls, I’m thinkin’. I’ll never take to bowin’ and goin’ to teas.” Faith laughed merrily; then shaking a finger at Rilla, prophesied: “The day is coming when you may be asked to be hostess for a lord or an earl or someone like that; then won’t you be glad that you learned how at High Cliff Seminary?” The idea was so absurd that even Muriel laughed. “Me hostess at an earl’s tea party? You’re allays sayin’ you have no imagination, but I’m thinkin’ you have some and to spare.” Laughter brought a better humor, as it always does, and for an hour that evening Muriel permitted her friend to teach her the first positions to be made in the curtsy. |
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