Rilla of the Lighthouse

It was, of course, after the summer season, or she would not have been in town at all. And on that same day her grand-dad had given her a whole quarter to spend just as she wished and she had asked Mrs. Sol Dexter for two hair ribbons, one to match the sunrise and one like the green in the hollow of a wave just before it turns over when the sun is shining on it.

“Queerest gal, that!” Mrs. Dexter confided to her husband, Cap’n Sol, the next time he came in from one of his sea “v’yages.”

“She must get all them sunset notions from her pa’s side. I recollect hearin’ he was an artist fellow.”

“Wall,” the good-natured man had replied, “if that pore gal gets any comfort out’n ’em, I’m sure sartin glad. She’s little more’n a prisoner most o’ the year over thar on Windy Island. Jest because her ma ran off ’n’ married up wi’ that city feller, ol’ Ezry Bassett is tarnal sartin the same thing’ll happen to Rilly. But I cal’late them thar city fellars, on the whole, ain’t hankerin’ to splice up with lighthouse keepers’ gals nor grand-gals, neither.”

When Rilla had reached home that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had purchased something all by herself and for the very first time, she had slipped up to her room with the broken mirror and she had tied on both of the new hair ribbons, one red and one green. They weren’t the shades that she had really wanted, but they were the prettiest that Mrs. Sol Dexter had in stock. Then she gazed long at her reflection in the mirror. Once – just once – her grand-dad had told her that she was the “splittin’ image” of her mother, who had died when she was only seventeen.

“I’ve allays wished as I had a photygraf of her,” Rilla had thought. “Now I can be lookin’ in the mirror an’ pretendin’ it’s a picture of my mother, only she’d be lots sweeter lookin’. Mrs. Sol Dexter said as how the summer folks called her beautiful.”

There was always a wistful, yearning expression in the hazel eyes of the girl when she thought of her mother.

But all this had happened the autumn before. Bad luck had not befallen Rilla – she didn’t even know that a broken mirror was supposed to bring bad luck – and that is probably why it had not done so; for we get, in this world, what we expect very often, and this little lass, who lived so close to nature, was always expecting something wonderful to happen and she found real joy in the simplest things.

The dog, lying just outside the door, lifted a listening ear the moment his little mistress had stepped out of bed and he was eagerly waiting when she softly opened the door.

“Sh! Shagsie, ol’ dog, don’ be barkin’,” the girl cautioned. “Grand-dad’s put the light out an’ he’s gone back to his bunk for ’nother forty winks. You’n I’ll have time to see what’s in the box. Sh-h! Soft now!”

The dog’s intelligent brown eyes were watching the face of his mistress and he seemed to understand that he must be very quiet. If Muriel tiptoed as she went down the curving flight of steps to the kitchen, so too did Shags. As she passed the door of her grand-dad’s bedroom she could hear his even breathing.

It was not unusual for Rilla and Shags to climb to the top of the crags to watch the sunrise, and so, even if her grandfather had awakened, he would have thought nothing of it, but it was not to the highest point of the cliff that the girl went.

Instead, she clambered down what appeared to be a perilous descent, but both she and the dog were as sure-footed as mountain goats, and they were soon standing on the out-jutting ledge in front of a small opening which was the entrance to her Treasure Cave.

Eager as the girl was to learn the secret that the box contained, she did not go in at once, but paused, turning toward the sea. The waves, lifting snowy crests, caught the dawning glory of the sky. Impulsively she stretched her arms out to the sun.

There was something sacred to this untaught girl about the rebirth of each day, and the glory of the sky and sea was reflected in her radiant upturned face. Only for a brief while did the pageantry last, and the world – Rilla’s world, all that she knew – was again attired in its everyday garb, sky-blue, sea-green, rock-grey, while over all was the shining sun-gold.

Stooping, for the cave door was too small to be entered by so tall a girl were she standing erect, Rilla disappeared from the ledge and Shags followed her. The cave within was larger than one might suppose, and was lighted by wide crevices here and there in its wall of rocks through which rays of sunlight slanted. The continuous roar of the surf, crashing on the rocks below, was somewhat dulled.

Rilla leaped forward with a little cry of joy.

“Shags,” she called gleefully, “it’s still here! ’Twa’n’t a dream-box arter all. I sort o’ got to thinkin’ in the night it might be.” She clapped her hands, for there were moments when Rilla was a very little girl at heart, much younger than her years, and yet at other times, when she was comforting her old grand-dad and soothing away his imaginary fears, she was far older than fifteen.

Shags was now permitted to bark his excitement, which he did, capering in puppy fashion about the banded box of foreign appearance.

The girl looked at it with her head on one side. “How in time are we to get into it, ol’ dog?” she inquired as she stooped to examine the box. “’Pears like we’ll have to smash it. Here yo’, Shags, what’s that tag-end yer tuggin’ on? Yo-o! It’s the answer to the riddle, like’s not! That strap’s got a buckle on it, an’ it’s mate’s the same. Heave ho! Open she comes. Easy as sailin’ down stream.” As the girl spoke she lifted the cover of the box and uttered a cry of mingled joy and amazement.

“Thunder sakes! Tarnell!” she ejaculated, unconsciously using both of her grandfather’s favorite exclamations at once.

“Shagsie, ol’ dog, will you be lookin’! There’s a mirror inside the cover as hasn’t a crack in it. Yo-o! It comes out. There now, stood up it’s as tall as I am.” As the girl talked to her interested companion she lifted the mirror-lined cover and placed it against the wall of the cave. Meanwhile the curious dog was dragging something from the box. Rilla leaped forward to rescue whatever it might be. “Lie down, sir, and mind orders,” she commanded. “I’m skipper o’ this craft.” After rescuing the mysterious something which the dog had evidently considered his rightful share of the booty, the girl knelt and examined the contents of the box. She then turned glowing eyes toward her comrade, who had minded her and was watching her intently, his head low on his outstretched paws. “Land a Goshen!” she ejaculated. “Shagsie, ol’ dog, what’d yo’ think? This here box is full o’ riggin’s for a fine lady such as comes from the city for the summer, ’pears like, though I’ve never seen ’em close to.”

Awed, and hardly able to believe her eyes, Rilla lifted a truly wonderful garment from the trunk – it was silk – and green, sea-green like the heart of a wave just before its foamy crest curls over in the sun.

It was trimmed with silvery, spangly lace.

“It’s a dress to wear, ’pears like, though thar’s not much to it as yo’ could call sleeves, an’, yo-o! Shagsie, will yo’ look? Here’s slipper things! Soft as the moss on the nor’east side o’ a rock an’ green, wi’ silver buckles.” Then the girl’s excited, merry laughter rang out as she drew forth another treasure. “Don’ tell me yo’ don’ know what this here is, Shagsie,” she chuckled. “Maybe yo’ think it’s a green spider-web, but ’tisn’t; no, sir, it’s got a heel and a toe to it! That’s a stockin’, ol’ dog. Now, who’d – ” She paused and listened intently. Ringing clear above the booming crash of the surf she heard her grand-dad calling. Quickly she ran to the opening.

“Rilly gal, tarnation sakes, whar be you? Never seem to be around mess time lately. The kettle’s singin’ like a tipsy sailor and ’bout to dance its cap off.”

“Comin’, Grand-dad,” the girl thrust her head out to reply, in a quieter moment, when a wave was receding; then hastily, but with infinite care, she knelt and smoothed the silken folds of the shimmering green gown, replaced the mirror-lined top, strapped it down and then covered the whole with an old sail cloth which had been one of Rilla’s former stowed-away treasures.

If the girl had been excited the night before, she was much more so this early morning. However, her grand-dad was preoccupied and did not notice the flushed cheeks and eager, glowing eyes of his “fust mate.” Silently he ate his quarter of apple pie, gulped down a huge cup of steaming coffee. It was plain to the girl who watched him that he was thinking of something intently.

Rilla was counting the minutes that would have to elapse before she revisited the cave, when her grand-dad pushed his armchair back from the table and arose.

“Rilly gal,” he peered over his spectacles at the girl, “I’ve got to navigate to town this mornin’. Oil and supplies are gettin’ tarnicky low, ’pears like. Equinoxial storms are due in port mos’ any day now, so we’ll not put the v’yage off any longer. Fust mate, be gettin’ into yer sea-goin’ togs.”

Muriel’s heart sank. “Oh, Grand-daddy, do I have to go?” The piercing grey eyes under shaggy brows turned toward the girl questioningly. Had he heard aright? Could it be his “gal” begging not to be taken to town, when usually it was right the other way.

Then he laughed. “What a suspicious ol’ sea-dog I am,” he ruminated. “Mabbe the gal’s rigged up some new fancy notion down in that cave o’ her’n.” Aloud he said heartily. “All right, fust mate, stay anchored if ye want to. I’m thinkin’ thar’s nothin’ on Windy Island to molest ye. Thar’s the gun in the corner if yer needin’ it, but Shags, here, will protect ye, won’t ye, ol’ skipper?”

The dog leaped alongside as the old man went down the steep, wet stairs that led to the wharf, near which a dory was floating.

The girl stood in the open door, and with shaded eyes watched the scudding sailboat until, as was his custom, her grand-dad turned to wave to her as he passed the first buoy.

There were many buoys, painted in varying bright colors, that the skipper of each incoming fishing smack might have no trouble in locating his own particular mooring place. On a moonlighted night, when the sailing boats were all in, it was indeed a pretty sight to see the flotilla, some newly painted and others weather-stained, bobbing on the choppy waters of the bay.

Windy Island, though only a quarter of a mile wide, was nearly a mile long, and protected one of the snuggest little harbors to be found along that wild, rugged coast.

As soon as the kitchen was shipshape, Muriel raced toward the outer edge of the cliff, calling “Yo-o, come on, Shagsie, ol’ dog. We’ll cruise back to the cave.”

But Rilla did not enter her Treasure Cave again that day, for in another moment, and quite unexpectedly, she was launched upon her very first real adventure.

CHAPTER III.

A FIRST ADVENTURE

Muriel did not have to call a second time to her shaggy friend, for up the steep, wet steps from the wharf the dog leaped and lifted intelligent, inquiring eyes. “Don’ let’s go to the cave fust off, Shagsie.” The girl always talked to her four-footed companion as though she were sure that he could understand. “Let’s go to that pebbly beach war yo’ found suthin’ yesterday an’ lost it. Mabbe it got washed up shore agin, whatever ’twas. Mabbe now! What say, ol’ Shags?”

Knowing that a reply was expected when his mistress stooped and stroked his head, the dog yapped eagerly, then raced alongside of the barefooted girl, who followed an infrequently used trail which ambled along toward the north end of the island, where the beach was wildest.

The shore, however, could not be seen until one was nearly upon it. When it came within the vision of the girl she stood still so suddenly that Shags, having kept on, was several lengths ahead before he was conscious that he was alone.

He turned back inquiringly. “Sh! Keep still!” the girl whispered, her hazel eyes growing darker and wider as she gazed, almost as though she were frightened at something just below on the rocky beach.

What she saw was not really fear-inspiring. A youth, dressed in white flannels, who appeared to be but little older than Rilla, was standing with his hands in his pockets gazing at a flat-bottomed, weather-stained sailboat, in which he had evidently just landed and which he had drawn as high as he could up on the shore.

He turned with a start when an angry voice called, “Clear out! Go away! We don’ want any landlubbers here!”

The lad, however, did not seem to be in the least intimidated by this outburst from the rocks above him.

Looking up, he actually smiled. A barefooted girl with red-brown hair blowing in the wind and with a shaggy yellow and white dog at her side was, to his thought, a picture more to be admired than feared.

And, for that matter, Eugene Beavers, himself, was not fear-inspiring. He had clear grey eyes, a keen, thin face, and a firmly rounded chin. Indeed, Gene, as his best friends called him, was not only a good looking lad but one whom young and old trusted unquestioningly.

But with Rilla one thought was uppermost. One of those terrible creatures so dreaded by her grand-dad had dared to land on her very own island. There could be no mistake that he was “city folks,” for no boy living on the coast would have such a pale face nor would he be dressed in white flannels.