  It was night on Morton’s Bay. A bright half moon painted a path of silver over water as still as the night. At the very center of this narrow bay some dark object cast a shadow. This was a rowboat. It was painted black. The anchor lay in its prow. The boat did not drift. There are times of perfect calm on the upper waters of Lake Huron. One figure was noticeable in this boat. A slight girl, she sat bent over as if in sleep, or perhaps in deep meditation. There was another person in the stern of the boat. A large girl, she lay in perfect repose against a pile of pillows. Was she asleep? Did she dream? She was thinking. One thinks best when at perfect repose. Where could be found more perfect repose? Perhaps nowhere. Yet this girl, who was none other than our old friend, Florence Huyler, was slightly disturbed. The rowboat had but now ceased rocking. The moment before, a powerful speed boat, passing at a terrific rate, had stirred the waters and had sent deep ridges and furrows to lift and drop it, lift and drop it many times. Florence did not like speed boats. They hurried too much. She was seldom in a hurry. She and this other girl had come to the little settlement to seek repose. More than once a speed boat had interrupted her meditations. Now it had happened again. “They’re taking a wide circle,” she told herself. “More than likely they’ll come back. Why can’t they leave us in peace?” The circle made by the speed boat widened. Perhaps they would not return after all. Her thoughts shifted to other matters. The figure in the forward seat was that of the blonde French girl, Petite Jeanne. She had not moved for a quarter of an hour. What were her thoughts? Or did she think? “Perhaps she is asleep,” Florence told herself. She had not stirred when the speed boat rocked them. “Ought I to warn her if they return?” Florence asked herself. “Might topple over into the bay. She can’t swim.” Yet, even as she thought this, Florence smiled at the idea of danger. What if the French girl could not swim? One swimmer was enough. And Florence could swim. Few better. Once she had swum the Ohio river, a mile wide, on a wager. “Easy to rescue her,” she thought. “But then, why get wet?” She shuddered at the thought of a plunge. It was August, but the season was late. These northern waters were still cold. Once more her thoughts shifted. To her right she had caught the gleam of a light. This light suggested mystery. Where the light shone was an island; not much of an island, a pile of rocks overgrown with cedars, but an island all the same. And in the midst of the cedars, dark, mysterious, all but hidden, was a cottage. And in the cottage lived a lady who dressed in somber garments and rowed a black boat. She visited no one, was visited by no one, and was seldom seen save in early morning, or at night. This much Florence had learned by watching the cabin from a distance. “Mystery!” she whispered. “Of all places, on these northern waters in a community where no man locks his doors. Mystery! Oh, well, probably nothing.” For all her whispered words, she was convinced that there was something. She meant to find out what that something was. But now her thoughts were rudely broken off. With a roar that was deafening, the racing speed boat was once more upon them. Coming closer this time, it set a current of air fanning their cheeks and showered them with fine spray. The little French girl, waking from her reverie, stared wildly about her, then clutched at the seat. Just in time. The rowboat, rocking violently, threatened to tumble them into the water. “Selfish!” Florence muttered. “As if there wasn’t room enough for both of us in all Lake Huron!” Just then a question entered her mind. Was there a purpose in all this? What purpose? To these questions she could form no answer. She resolved to remain right there, all the same; at least until Petite Jeanne had finished her meditations and asked to be taken in. “What can so completely fill the mind of little Jeanne?” she asked herself. “Perhaps it is her part in the play. Ah yes, that must be it.” That wonderful play! At once her mind was filled with bright dreams for the little French girl. Petite Jeanne, as you will remember if you have read our other book, The Gypsy Shawl, had once lived and traveled with the gypsies of France. Florence and her friend Betty had found her there in France. In her company they had passed through many thrilling adventures. When these were over, Florence had invited her to visit America. She had come. More than that, a marvelous future had appeared like a bright, beckoning star before her. In France she had taken part in a great charity play, staged in the famous Paris Opera. There she had performed the ancient gypsy dance in the most divine manner. She had won the acclaim of the elite of Paris. Not alone this; she had caught the eye of a renowned producer of drama. Finding himself prepared to stage a drama in which the French gypsies had a part, he had sent to France for Petite Jeanne. A prolonged search had ended in America. He had found Petite Jeanne with her friend Florence Huyler in her own city, Chicago. The director had laid his plans before her. Her most important part in the drama was to be exactly that of her feat in Paris, to dance the gypsy dance with a pet bear beneath a golden moon. There were, of course, minor parts to be played, but this was to be the crowning glory. “Would Petite Jeanne do this?” Would she? The little French girl had wept tears of joy. Since her success at the Paris Opera she had dreamed many dreams. This engagement promised to make these dreams come true. Only one sorrow had come to her. There was no part in the drama for Florence. To Florence this was no deprivation. Acting had never appealed to her. Life, to her, was more than acting on a stage. Life, vivid life, physical strength, the great out-of-doors, this was her world. “But when you are rich and famous,” she had said to Petite Jeanne, “I will be your ‘mother.’ Every star, you know, must have a ‘mother’ to protect her from impudent and stage-struck people.” “Yes, and well you are able to protect me!” laughed Petite Jeanne, squeezing her arm. “Parbleu! Your arm, it is hard and strong as a man’s!” Florence had not waited until the French girl was rich and famous to become her guide and protector. She had entered upon the task at once. “At least until she is safely launched upon her career, and well accustomed to America, I will stay by her side,” she had said to the great producer, Jeffry Farnsworth. To this Farnsworth agreed. He at once made provisions for their immediate needs. Rehearsals had begun. They proceeded in a satisfactory manner for three weeks. Then Farnsworth announced a four weeks’ breathing spell. “Go north, where it is cool,” he had said to Florence. “Our French lily droops a little in this humid climate. The north waters and woods will be medicine to her body and religion to her soul.” So here they were, drifting on a silent bay, with the moon and the stars above them and all the world, save one restless speed boat, at rest. Far back in the bay, on a narrow point among the pines and cedars, was their temporary home. A log cabin it was, with a broad fireplace at its back, with heavily cushioned rustic chairs in every corner, and with such an air of freshness, brightness and peace hovering over it as is found only where sky, water and forest meet in the northland. Thinking of all this, Florence, too, had fallen into a deep reverie when, with the suddenness of a world’s end, catastrophe befell them. With a rush and a roar, a demon of speed sprang at them. “The speed boat!” she screamed in Jeanne’s ear. “Jump!” The words were not out of her mouth when, with a swirling swing, she was lost in a mountain of foam. Their rowboat toppled over, casting them into the chilling water of the bay. At once Florence was on the surface, swimming strongly. “But what of Jeanne? She does not swim. I must save her.” These were the thoughts uppermost in her mind when a blonde head bobbed up close beside her. Her hand flew out. It grasped something, the girl’s cape. It was loose. It came away. Jeanne began to sink. One more desperate effort and Florence had her, first by the hair, then by an arm. “Jeanne!” she panted. “Jeanne! Get hold of my blouse and cling tight!” The frightened French girl obeyed. When she had secured a firm hold, Florence swam slowly. She must have time to think. The boat was overturned, perhaps smashed. At any rate she could not right it. The speed boat had not paused. It was far away. The night and dark waters were all about them. “They never slackened their pace!” she muttered bitterly. “And they laughed! I heard a laugh. It was a woman. How could they?” What was to be done? On the shore a single light gleamed. “It’s the light of that mysterious islander,” she told herself. “That woman who goes out only at night. That is by far the nearest point. We must try for that. It is our only chance. She must let us in; make a fire; dry us out. Jeanne will perish of cold.” With that she turned her face toward that light and, swimming strongly, glided silently through the dark water. The waters were not more silent than her fair burden, who floated after her like a ghost. |
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