  On the day that Muriel was winning the tennis tournament, Gene Beavers sat in the library of their home on the outskirts of London, thinking “Oh, to be near the Hudson now that Indian summer is there.” It was a glorious morning and the lad was tempted to go for a longer stroll than usual when his sister burst in with, “Oh, Gene, something wonderful has happened! You couldn’t guess what, not in a thousand years.” “Well, since I’m not an Egyptian mummy, there isn’t much use trying,” was the smiling response; but his thought was, “How I wish it were that Muriel Storm has come to England.” “Mother is overjoyed,” Helen was saying. “It’s the one thing for which she has been longing and yearning ever since we came, and perhaps for that very reason she has wished it into existence. Now can you guess?” The lad shook his head. “I’m not much good at riddles, Sis,” he confessed. “What is it?” “An invitation!” was the triumphant announcement as Helen brought the hand which had been back of her to the front and held high a white envelope which bore a crest. Gene sank down in a comfortable armchair, the interest fading from his face. “Is that all?” he asked. “A stupid bore, I would call it. How you women folk can be so enthusiastic about invitations to receptions and teas is more than I can understand.” His sister sat on an arm of his chair. “But, Gene,” she said, “you have often wished that you might stroll around in those park-like grounds of the Wainwater estate.” The lad again assumed an expression of interest. “I’ll agree to that,” he declared. “They are wonderfully alluring. Several times, when I have been out for a stroll, I have gone down the Wainwater Road and have paused at the least-frequented gate in the high hedge to gaze in among the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fawn, and yesterday I saw one drinking from the stream. Such a graceful, beautiful creature, and it looked up at me, not at all afraid.” “I know that gate,” Helen said. “I stood there a moment only yesterday, but what I especially admired was the picturesque view one gets of the castle-like home which is at least a quarter of a mile back from the road, among the great old trees. I have read about such places, with galleries where ancestral paintings are hung, and I’d just love to see the inside of one.” “You probably will never have the opportunity,” her brother began; but he was interrupted with: “Have you already forgotten this wonderful invitation?” Helen again held up the crested envelope. “But you haven’t told me to what or by whom you are invited,” the lad replied. “We, all of us, are invited to Wainwater Castle by the elderly Countess herself, and the invitation was obtained by Monsieur Carnot.” Then, noting the slight frown, she hurried on to explain: “You know, dear, that the Viscount of Wainwater really controls the business, the American interest of which our father represents, but it seems that his honorable lordship, if that is what he is called, is more interested in the arts, and leaves the direction of matters financial to Monsieur Carnot.” Then, noting that Gene had turned away and was looking rather listlessly out of the window, his sister added: “Brother, dear, doesn’t anything interest you any more? I did so hope that you would be glad to visit this beautiful estate with mother and me. Father and Monsieur Carnot will be unable to attend, and we counted upon you to escort us.” The lad looked up with a sudden brightening smile. Rising, he slipped an arm about the girl as he said lovingly: “Your brother isn’t much of a social ornament, but he ought to be glad, indeed, that his mother and sister really want his companionship.” The girl looked pityingly into the pale face that had been tanned and ruddy with health on that long ago day when she had visited him on Windy Island. Impulsively, she took both his hands. “Brother,” she said, “it was wrong of mother to make you leave America just when you were well again and all because you were enjoying the friendship of a lighthouse-keeper and his grand-daughter. Some day I shall tell mother the truth, which is that you and I both hate, hate, HATE all this catering to and aping after the English nobility.” Then, inconsistently, she added: “Nevertheless, I am curious to see the inside of the Wainwater mansion. However, if an English nobleman asks me to marry him, I shall reply that I prefer an American.” This last was called merrily over her shoulder as she left her brother, who, though amused, heartily endorsed her sentiment. Mrs. Beavers, who had been greatly elated by the invitation which she had received from the Countess of Wainwater, obtained all the information she believed they would require. Being Americans, they, of course, did not know the correct way of addressing an elderly countess and her middle-aged son, the viscount. They had a private rehearsal the evening before the great event, which amused the young people. “Mumsie,” Helen said gleefully, “this reminds me of ‘The Birds’ Christmas Carol,’ when those adorable Irish children were drilled in manners before attending a dinner party. Then to give them a proper sense of family pride, didn’t their mother say, ‘And don’t forget that your father was a policeman’?” Mrs. Beavers did not smile. “Helen, dear, it is very important that we know the proper thing to do and say on all occasions,” was her only reply. The next afternoon, as they were being driven to the castle-like Wainwater home, Mrs. Beavers looked admiringly at Helen and Gene. Any mother, even a countess, might be proud of them, she assured herself. However, being Americans, they did not seem to be as greatly impressed with the fact that they were to visit a peer of the realm as this particular mother might wish. Helen had been just as elated when she was on the way to see an old historical ruin, and as for Gene Mrs. Beavers glanced at him apprehensively. He did not seem to be even thinking of the honor which had been conferred upon them. Indeed, whenever his mother beheld that far-away, dreamy expression in his eyes, she feared that he was thinking of that “dreadful girl, the lighthouse-keeper’s grand-daughter,” nor was she wrong. At that moment Gene was wondering what Muriel might be doing and resolved to write her upon his return. Notwithstanding the fact that it was a glorious, golden afternoon in October, the windows of the castle were darkened and the salon within was brilliantly lighted and thronged with fashionably dressed gentry from the countryside and from London when the arrival of the Beavers was announced. The elderly countess, as Gene afterwards said, would be just his ideal of a lovable grandmother if she could be transplanted to a New England fireplace and away from so much grandness. There was, indeed, an amused twinkle in the sweet gray-blue eyes of the little old lady who, during the first hour, sat enthroned, not being strong enough to stand and receive. Gene was idly watching the colorful scene about him, feeling weary indeed and almost stifled with the fragrance of flowers and perfumes, when he felt rather than saw that the countess was watching him. Glancing toward her, he found that he had been right, for she was beckoning to him. Quickly the lad went to her side, and in her kind, grandmotherly way she said: “Dear boy, you look very tired. Why not go out in the park for a while? Perhaps you will find there my son. He will be glad to meet you. Follow the stream to a cabin.” Gene thanked the dear little old lady for her suggestion and after telling his mother and sister his plan, he went out. He soon forgot the brilliantly lighted salon in his joy at being alone once again with nature. He had been ill so long that as he looked back over the days and months they seemed to stretch behind him illimitably and grey, except where they were made golden by his dreams of Muriel. Dear, brave, wonderful Muriel! Gene knew now all that had happened; the death of Captain Ezra, the lighthouse-keeper, who had been so kind to him, and about the fashionable boarding school to which Doctor Lem had sent his protege. The kindly physician had received a note from Gene one day stating that since he never heard from Muriel he would greatly appreciate it if, from time to time, he would write and tell him of the island girl. It had not been hard for the older man to read between the lines and he had replied at once, telling all that had happened to Muriel. But only the pleasant part of the letter from Doctor Lem was being recalled by the lad as he followed the fern-tangled banks of a stream that wound its picturesque way deeper and deeper into the wooded park. Suddenly Gene paused. Surely he heard the bird-like notes of a flute. He peered among the trees, but saw no one. Then, as he advanced, the music was hushed and he decided that, perhaps, it had been the song of a hermit thrush. There was a dense growth of evergreen trees just ahead of him. They crowded so close to the edge of the water that the lad paused, thinking that he would better go back, but, noticing a wet, mossy rock near, he stepped out upon it, and, to his delight, saw just beyond the pines the rustic cabin of which the countess had spoken. Eager and interested, the lad half ran up the path, soft with pine needles, and tapped upon the door, wondering if the cabin were deserted. “Come in,” a deep voice called. Gene opened the door and entered a large, square, rustic room which seemed to be both a hunting lodge and a den. A man whose face seemed too young for its crowning of grey was lounging in a deep, comfortable chair in front of a wide fireplace on which a log was burning. He wore a crimson velvet jacket and he was reading. Other books and magazines were placed on a low table near. Too, there was a flute, the notes of which Gene had heard. The man smiled a welcome. “American?” he inquired. Gene said that he was. “Good!” motioning to a chair beyond the hearth. “Lost?” was the next question. “No, sent,” the lad replied, then seated himself and told how he chanced to be there. “My lady mother must have thought that you and I would like to know each other,” the man said. “You are the son of our American representative?” “Yes, Eugene Beavers also is the name of my father.” “Fine man! Then, you’ve been ill?” “A long time. Breakdown in college.” “Over-study or over-athletics?” The older man asked this with a quizzical smile. “Both perhaps. Neglected books while training for the big game, then broke down cramming for midwinter exams.” “Like London?” “No, I think it’s beastly.” The Englishman laughed. “That doesn’t sound American. What place do you like better?” “Tunkett, Massachusetts.” Then it was the turn of the lad to laugh. “That place, of course, means nothing to you. It isn’t even on the map. Just a fishing hamlet.” The viscount leaned forward and with the iron tongs moved the position of the log that it might burn faster. His next remark astonished the lad, who thought he never had met a man he liked better. “Come over here, Gene Beavers, and spend a week with me; or, better still, we might take a hiking trip through Scotland.” “Honest Injun?” The lad’s face glowed eagerly, boyishly. “Honest Injun.” Thus was begun a friendship between the Viscount of Wainwater and Gene Beavers. People marveled at it, for, though many sought the friendship of the viscount, few were permitted to enter the seclusion in which he chose to live. |
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