Rilla of the Lighthouse

by Grace May North

  CHAPTER XXXII. WAINWATER CASTLE.

  On the day that Muriel was winning the tennis tournament, Gene Beaverssat 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 longerstroll than usual when his sister burst in with, "Oh, Gene, somethingwonderful has happened! You couldn't guess what, not in a thousandyears."

  "Well, since I'm not an Egyptian mummy, there isn't much use trying," wasthe smiling response; but his thought was, "How I wish it were thatMuriel Storm has come to England."

  "Mother is overjoyed," Helen was saying. "It's the one thing for whichshe has been longing and yearning ever since we came, and perhaps forthat 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," heconfessed. "What is it?"

  "An invitation!" was the triumphant announcement as Helen brought thehand which had been back of her to the front and held high a whiteenvelope which bore a crest.

  Gene sank down in a comfortable armchair, the interest fading from hisface. "Is that all?" he asked. "A stupid bore, I would call it. How youwomen folk can be so enthusiastic about invitations to receptions andteas is more than I can understand."

  His sister sat on an arm of his chair. "But, Gene," she said, "you haveoften wished that you might stroll around in those park-like grounds ofthe Wainwater estate."

  The lad again assumed an expression of interest. "I'll agree to that," hedeclared. "They are wonderfully alluring. Several times, when I have beenout for a stroll, I have gone down the Wainwater Road and have paused atthe 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 drinkingfrom the stream. Such a graceful, beautiful creature, and it looked up atme, 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 thecastle-like home which is at least a quarter of a mile back from theroad, among the great old trees. I have read about such places, withgalleries where ancestral paintings are hung, and I'd just love to seethe inside of one."

  "You probably will never have the opportunity," her brother began; but hewas interrupted with: "Have you already forgotten this wonderfulinvitation?" Helen again held up the crested envelope.

  "But you haven't told me to what or by whom you are invited," the ladreplied.

  "We, all of us, are invited to Wainwater Castle by the elderly Countessherself, and the invitation was obtained by Monsieur Carnot." Then,noting the slight frown, she hurried on to explain: "You know, dear, thatthe Viscount of Wainwater really controls the business, the Americaninterest of which our father represents, but it seems that his honorablelordship, 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 listlesslyout of the window, his sister added: "Brother, dear, doesn't anythinginterest you any more? I did so hope that you would be glad to visit thisbeautiful estate with mother and me. Father and Monsieur Carnot will beunable to attend, and we counted upon you to escort us."

  The lad looked up with a sudden brightening smile. Rising, he slipped anarm about the girl as he said lovingly: "Your brother isn't much of asocial ornament, but he ought to be glad, indeed, that his mother andsister really want his companionship." The girl looked pityingly into thepale face that had been tanned and ruddy with health on that long ago daywhen she had visited him on Windy Island.

  Impulsively, she took both his hands. "Brother," she said, "it was wrongof mother to make you leave America just when you were well again and allbecause you were enjoying the friendship of a lighthouse-keeper and hisgrand-daughter. Some day I shall tell mother the truth, which is that youand I both hate, _hate_, HATE all this catering to and aping after theEnglish nobility." Then, inconsistently, she added: "Nevertheless, I _am_curious to see the inside of the Wainwater mansion. However, if anEnglish nobleman asks me to marry him, I shall reply that I prefer anAmerican."

  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 hadreceived from the Countess of Wainwater, obtained all the information shebelieved they would require. Being Americans, they, of course, did notknow the correct way of addressing an elderly countess and hermiddle-aged son, the viscount. They had a private rehearsal the eveningbefore the great event, which amused the young people. "Mumsie," Helensaid gleefully, "this reminds me of 'The Birds' Christmas Carol,' whenthose adorable Irish children were drilled in manners before attending adinner party. Then to give them a proper sense of family pride, didn'ttheir mother say, 'And don't forget that your father was a policeman'?"

  Mrs. Beavers did not smile. "Helen, dear, it is very important that weknow the proper thing to do and say on all occasions," was her onlyreply.

  The next afternoon, as they were being driven to the castle-likeWainwater home, Mrs. Beavers looked admiringly at Helen and Gene. Anymother, even a countess, might be proud of them, she assured herself.

  However, being Americans, they did not seem to be as greatly impressedwith the fact that they were to visit a peer of the realm as thisparticular mother might wish.

  Helen had been just as elated when she was on the way to see an oldhistorical ruin, and as for Gene Mrs. Beavers glanced at himapprehensively. He did not seem to be even thinking of the honor whichhad been conferred upon them. Indeed, whenever his mother beheld thatfar-away, dreamy expression in his eyes, she feared that he was thinkingof that "dreadful girl, the lighthouse-keeper's grand-daughter," nor wasshe wrong. At that moment Gene was wondering what Muriel might be doingand resolved to write her upon his return.

  Notwithstanding the fact that it was a glorious, golden afternoon inOctober, the windows of the castle were darkened and the salon within wasbrilliantly lighted and thronged with fashionably dressed gentry from thecountryside and from London when the arrival of the Beavers wasannounced. The elderly countess, as Gene afterwards said, would be justhis ideal of a lovable grandmother if she could be transplanted to a NewEngland fireplace and away from so much grandness.

  There was, indeed, an amused twinkle in the sweet gray-blue eyes of thelittle old lady who, during the first hour, sat enthroned, not beingstrong enough to stand and receive.

  Gene was idly watching the colorful scene about him, feeling weary indeedand almost stifled with the fragrance of flowers and perfumes, when hefelt rather than saw that the countess was watching him. Glancing towardher, 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 shesaid: "Dear boy, you look very tired. Why not go out in the park for awhile? 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 aftertelling his mother and sister his plan, he went out. He soon forgot thebrilliantly lighted salon in his joy at being alone once again withnature. He had been ill so long that as he looked back over the days andmonths they seemed to stretch behind him illimitably and grey, exceptwhere they were made golden by his dreams of Muriel.

  Dear, brave, wonderful Muriel! Gene knew now all that had happened; thedeath of Captain Ezra, the lighthouse-keeper, who had been so kind tohim, and about the fashionable boarding school to which Doctor Lem hadsent his protege.

  The kindly physician had received a note from Gene one day stating thatsince he never heard from Muriel he would greatly appreciate it if, fromtime 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 hehad replied at once, tell
ing all that had happened to Muriel.

  But only the pleasant part of the letter from Doctor Lem was beingrecalled by the lad as he followed the fern-tangled banks of a streamthat wound its picturesque way deeper and deeper into the wooded park.Suddenly Gene paused. Surely he heard the bird-like notes of a flute. Hepeered among the trees, but saw no one. Then, as he advanced, the musicwas hushed and he decided that, perhaps, it had been the song of a hermitthrush. 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 rocknear, he stepped out upon it, and, to his delight, saw just beyond thepines the rustic cabin of which the countess had spoken.

  Eager and interested, the lad half ran up the path, soft with pineneedles, 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 whichseemed to be both a hunting lodge and a den. A man whose face seemed tooyoung for its crowning of grey was lounging in a deep, comfortable chairin front of a wide fireplace on which a log was burning. He wore acrimson velvet jacket and he was reading. Other books and magazines wereplaced on a low table near. Too, there was a flute, the notes of whichGene 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 seatedhimself and told how he chanced to be there.

  "My lady mother must have thought that you and I would like to know eachother," 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 quizzicalsmile.

  "Both perhaps. Neglected books while training for the big game, thenbroke down cramming for midwinter exams."

  "Like London?"

  "No, I think it's beastly."

  The Englishman laughed. "That doesn't sound American. What place do youlike better?"

  "Tunkett, Massachusetts." Then it was the turn of the lad to laugh. "Thatplace, of course, means nothing to you. It isn't even on the map. Just afishing hamlet."

  The viscount leaned forward and with the iron tongs moved the position ofthe log that it might burn faster.

  His next remark astonished the lad, who thought he never had met a man heliked better.

  "Come over here, Gene Beavers, and spend a week with me; or, betterstill, 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 GeneBeavers. People marveled at it, for, though many sought the friendship ofthe viscount, few were permitted to enter the seclusion in which he choseto live.