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CHAPTER XLI.
MURIEL HEARS FROM HER FATHER

Once again it was spring. The trees about High Cliffs Seminary were pale green and pink with unfolding fresh young leaves and in the orchard back of the school the cherry, peach and apple trees were huge bouquets of fragrant bloom, spreading a feast for the bees that hummed cheerily among the flowers. Now and then a meadow lark sent its shaft of song rejoicing through the sunlit morning from somewhere beyond the tennis courts where three girls were playing, with but little animation, however, as the first real spring weather was too warm to be invigorating.

“I wish we knew what has happened to sadden our Rilla,” Catherine Lambert said when, the set having been finished, the girls sat on a bench to rest.

“She came back to school after the Christmas holidays so joyous that I thought some wonderful thing had happened like a romance or – ”

“A romance and Muriel not yet eighteen years of age!” This protestingly from Faith. But Catherine, heeding not the interruption, continued: “But that could not have been it, for now she seems very sad. I should think that you two girls who are so intimate with her might ask what has happened. Surely she is troubled about something.”

“I wish I could truly say that I have noticed no change in Muriel,” Joy remarked, as she looked meditatively toward the orchard; “but I cannot, for she is changed. She studies harder than ever before, if that can possibly be. Miss Gordon told me that she had never known a pupil at High Cliffs to make such progress.”

“I wonder if Miss Gordon knows what is troubling Muriel? I am sure that she would, if anyone did,” Faith said, but Joy shook her head. “No, Miss Gordon does not know, for last week she asked me to come to her apartment at an hour when Muriel was occupied in the music room and she asked me if I had noticed a change in Rilla, and if so, had I any idea what had occasioned it. I said that we all realized that Muriel seemed sad, but that we did not know the reason. Then Miss Gordon declared that she would write Doctor Winslow, who has been in the South for a month with a patient, and ask him what he thought might be troubling his ward. If this source of possible information fails, Miss Gordon will ask Rilla herself.”

While these three friends were discussing Muriel as they sat out by the tennis court, that maiden was seated alone beneath the little pine tree that had been her comforter in those first lonely days before she had become acquainted at High Cliffs. In her hand she held a letter and there were unshed tears in her eyes. Although her Uncle Barney’s name was signed at the close of the missive, Muriel knew that Molly had penned it for him.

“Dearie,” the girl read, “there’s no news yet, though it does seem like there ought to be. Here ’tis May and the letter we wrote was sent last December. Folks do say, ‘no news is good news,’ but I reckon this time, colleen, ’tisn’t so. If your father was living he’d have sent some sort of an answer. It would be going against nature not to.

“If he hadn’t lost the letter with the address on it, or if we could remember it, we’d write again. ’Twas a name I’d never heard before, nor had Molly. I reckon that old letter got into the stove, somehow, and so there’s no way to write again. Seems like I can never forgive myself if the fault is mine. Your loving Uncle Barney.”

So, after all, the dream ended. Muriel was never to know the father she had loved so long. With a sigh that was half a sob, she arose and walked slowly back toward the school, when she saw one of the younger pupils racing toward her.

“Muriel Storm, you’re wanted in the parlor. There’s someone to see you. It’s a man and he’s elegant looking.”

Muriel’s heart leaped. Could it be that her father had come, after all?

When Muriel appeared in the doorway of the reception room, Miss Gordon rose, as did the man who was at her side.

Advancing with outstretched hands, the principal said: “Dear girl, why didn’t you tell me about it? I wasn’t at all prepared for the message that this gentleman has brought to us.” Then turning to the man, who was gazing with unconcealed interest at the tall, beautiful girl, Miss Gordon added: “Muriel, this is Mr. Templeton of London. He has come at the request of your father, who is not strong enough just now to make the voyage, and, if you desire, you are to return with Mr. Templeton at once. Your passage has been engaged on a steamship leaving Hoboken tomorrow at daybreak.”

The girl gazed from one to the other as though scarcely able to comprehend. Then, slowly, a light dawned in her clear hazel eyes and she said: “My father, my own father, he wants me?”

Mr. Templeton was deeply moved and stepping forward he took both hands of the girl as he said sincerely:

“Indeed, Miss Muriel, he does want you. I never saw a man more affected than he was when he learned that he had a daughter living. He wanted to come to you at once, but he has been ill and his physician advised against the voyage as the sea is none too quiet in the spring. And so I have been sent to accompany you to your father if you will trust me.”

The girl’s questioning gaze turned toward Miss Gordon, who smilingly nodded. “It is right, dear, that you should go,” she said. “I have telephoned to Dr. Winslow and he will be here this afternoon. Now you had better go to your room. I will send a maid to help you pack.”

Upon leaving the reception room Muriel had gone at once in search of her best friends and had found them all in Joy’s room.

“We’ve been hunting for you everywhere,” Faith said. “We wanted you to make a fourth on the courts, but you were nowhere about, so we had to play alone.”

Then the speaker paused and gazed intently at the morning glow in the face of her friend. “Why, Muriel,” she exclaimed, “of late you have seemed troubled, but now you are radiant. Tell us what has happened.”

Although every moment was needed for preparing for departure, Muriel paused long enough to tell these, her dearest friends, that at last her own father had been found.

“Rilla, it’s like a chapter in a story-book, isn’t it?” Joy exclaimed. “Don’t you feel strange and unreal?”

Muriel laughed. “I suppose that I do, but girls, I haven’t time now to feel anything, for I must pack and be ready to leave for New York on the evening boat. Uncle Lem is going to keep me at the hospital tonight, and I am to meet my escort at Hoboken tomorrow morning before daybreak.”

It had been a whirl of a day and when at last came the hour for parting with Miss Gordon and the girls who had been such loyal friends, Muriel suddenly realized that, though she was to gain much, she also was losing much.

“I don’t believe anything in the world could take me from you all but just my father,” she said.

“I’ll prophesy that you’ll see us soon,” Miss Gordon said briskly, for she knew the tears were near. Luckily the whistle of the boat at that moment warned the friends that they must go ashore, but they stood on the dock and waved until the small craft was out of sight.

Then it was that Muriel recalled a letter that Miss Widdemere had given her at the last moment. Taking it from her coat pocket, she saw that it was from Gene, who was again in London.

CHAPTER XLII.
MURIEL MEETS HER FATHER

To the surprised delight of Muriel, both Uncle Barney and little Zoeth were at the boat to bid her goodbye. Doctor Winslow had at once wired the good news to the old man who had been instrumental in finding the girl’s long-lost father and his deeply furrowed, weather-beaten face shone with joy as he held out his arms to Rilla, heeding not at all the jostling throng of voyagers who were eager to board the greater steamer.

“Who is your pa, Rilly gal? What’d the lawyer chap tell yo’ about him?” Muriel shook her head. “I don’t know a bit more about it than you do, Uncle Barney,” she confessed. “My father wished me to form my own opinion when I met him, and so he asked Mr. Templeton to make no attempt to describe him to me. I’m glad really. One never can picture people as they truly are. All that matters to me is that he is my father.”

Then Doctor Lem returned, having attended to the baggage, and they all accompanied Rilla to her stateroom. “Take good care of Shags for me,” were her last words to Zoeth, “and tell him I’ll come back after him as soon as ever I can.”

Then Muriel leaned over the rail and waved to her loved ones on the crowded wharf until the huge steamer had swung out into the channel.

The voyage, although of great interest to the girl, who so loved the sea, was uneventful, and in due time England was reached.

“And so this is London,” Muriel said one foggy morning as she glanced out of the window of the conveyance which Mr. Templeton had engaged to take them to their destination. “I am so glad that my father does not live in the city.” Then she inquired: “Is he a farmer, Mr. Templeton?” Rilla recalled that when in Tunkett the young man had seemed to be very poor, but he might have sold paintings enough since then to have bought a farm.

Mr. Templeton’s expression was inscrutable. “Why, yes, Miss Muriel; in a way your father might be called a farmer. All kinds of vegetables and stock are raised on his place. But – er – he doesn’t wield the pitchfork himself these days. He is rather too prosperous for that.”

How glad the girl was when they were out on the open road. The hawthorn hedges were white with bloom and so high that in many places they could not see over them into the parklike grounds they were passing.

Suddenly Muriel touched Mr. Templeton’s arm and lifted a glowing face. “Hark!” she whispered. “Did you hear it? Over there in the hedgerow. There it is again. Oh, I know him! Miss Gordon has often read the poem.

 
“‘That’s the wise thrush. He sings each song twice over
Lest you think he could never recapture
That first fine, careless rapture.’
 

“Do you like Browning’s poetry, Mr. Templeton?”

“Well, really, Miss Muriel, I’ve never had much time to read verse; been too busy studying law. But your farmer-father sets quite a store by the poets, he tells me.”

“I’m so glad!” was the radiant reply. Then the girl fell to musing. How she hoped that her dear mother knew that at last she was going to the poor artist whom she had so loved.

“How long will it be before we reach the farming district, Mr. Templeton?” The girl was again gazing out of the window at her side. “These homes that we are passing are like the great old castles I have read about in Scott’s books and Thackeray’s.”

“We will soon reach our destination,” was the non-committal reply of her companion. Then, leaning forward, he spoke a few words to the man at the wheel.

They turned down a side road that narrowed to a winding lane. There the conveyance stopped and Mr. Templeton directed Muriel to a picturesque cabin half hidden among trees, in front of which ran a shallow babbling stream. “Your father awaits you in there,” he said.

As one in a dream Muriel crossed the rustic bridge and approached the cabin. It was just the sort of a home that an artist would build, she thought.

Timidly she knocked on the closed door. It was flung open by a man nearing middle age, perhaps, but whose youthful face was radiant with a great joy. Taking both her hands, he gazed at her devouringly. Then, drawing her to him, he crushed her in his arms as he said, his voice tense with emotion: “My Rilla’s own little girl, and my girl, too.”

CHAPTER XLIII.
RILLA OF THE LIGHTHOUSE

It was June, one year since Muriel Storm had arrived in England, and again she was returning to the home of her ancestors, after a long trip to Switzerland, where Gene had visited her and her father. During this year, Muriel had acquired from her father an ease of manner which well fitted her for the position she was to fill.

Invitations to the debut of Lady Muriel were crossing the Atlantic. They were addressed to the four girls at High Cliffs who had befriended her when she was supposed to be only the grand-daughter of a lighthouse-keeper. Others bearing the Wainwater crest were addressed to dwellers in Tunkett – to Doctor Winslow and his lovely wife; to Brazilla Mullet and her brother, Jabez Mullet; to Uncle Barney and his Molly.

In London Mrs. Beavers and Helen received their invitation. There was a flush of pleasure on the elder lady’s face as she read the message on the crested card. “Helen,” she said, “will wonders never cease? The Viscount of Wainwater has a daughter. Probably she has been away at school all these years and that is why we have not heard of her.” Then, as her gaze wandered to a handsome pictured face on a table near, she added: “I am glad now that Gene did not care for Marianne Carnot.”

Helen laughed. “Mother, dear,” she said, “what a matchmaker you are! It is unfortunate that brother seems to care for Muriel Storm.”

“Daughter,” replied Mrs. Beavers haughtily, “I wish you never again to mention the name of that seafaring girl in my presence. I am so glad that your brother will be home from college in time to attend the debut.”

* * * * * * * *

The day of the great event had arrived. Helen and her mother were dressed and waiting for the carriage to convey them to Wainwater Castle. But the elder woman was troubled, for though the boat from America had docked and the train from Liverpool had arrived two hours before, yet Gene had not come. Then she heard his voice in the lower hall, asking, “Where is my mother?”

Catching her outstretched hands, he exclaimed admiringly: “Did ever a chap have so beautiful a mother?” Not waiting for a reply, he added wheedlingly, “Mother, darling, are you as hard-hearted as ever?”

“I am never hard-hearted, son, where you are concerned. What do you mean?”

“Mother mine, I have come to ask your permission to marry the most wonderful girl in this world, whose name is Muriel Storm. Am I right in believing that you really care for my happiness?”

“Yes, my son, I care for nothing else; it will be a great disappointment to me to have you marry the daughter of a lighthouse-keeper, but if you are convinced she is the girl you love, I will welcome her for your sake.”

“Mother, mother,” he cried, “you will never regret those words!”

Soon after the last guest had arrived at the castle, the orchestra was stilled, and the viscount spoke. “Friends and neighbors, I have invited you here tonight to rejoice with us. I wish to announce the engagement of my daughter to one of the finest lads I have ever known, Gene Beavers. And now it gives me great pleasure to present to you my daughter, the Lady Muriel of Wainwater.”

Mrs. Beavers was scarcely able to believe what she had heard and seen. As one in a trance, she advanced, and Gene leaped to meet her and placed Muriel’s hand in that of his mother. “My boy – I don’t understand – I thought – is this – ”

Impulsively the girl held out her other hand as she said in her most winning way: “I want you to love me. I am Rilla of the Lighthouse.”