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.