  There is that about the woods and water at night which casts upon one a spell of irresistible loneliness and sadness. It is as if all the generations of those who have lived and died in the vicinity, whose canoes have glided silently through rippling waters, whose axes have awakened echoes and whose campfires have brought dark shadows into being, return at this hour to mourn their loss of a beautiful world. Florence felt something of this as the mystery lady donned a cloak of somber hue, then pushed a dark rowboat into the water. A faint knock of oarlock was the only sound that disturbed the grave-like stillness. Some dark bird, awakened from his sleep, rose in their path to go swooping away without a sound. The lady of the island did not speak. From time to time she glanced over her shoulder to sweep the water with her eye. When some object a little darker than the water appeared in the distance, she pursued a course that led directly to it. “There,” she said, as they bumped against the object, “is your boat. It doesn’t seem large, nor heavy. You are strong. Perhaps we can right it.” Ten minutes of muscle testing struggle and the boat, half filled with water, lay alongside. As Florence settled back to catch her breath before assisting in bailing out the boat, she exclaimed: “How can rich people be so thoughtless, reckless and cruel?” “Why!” said her hostess in a mild tone, “I haven’t found them so.” “Didn’t they rush our boat, then laugh as it went over?” “Did they? Tell me about it.” The young lady’s tone suddenly took on a note of lively interest. Florence told her exactly what had happened. “That is queer,” said the lady, as she finished. “Your boat is dark; your friend wore a dark cape. Until to-night I have spent every evening for a week in this bay, sitting just as your companion was sitting, in an attitude of meditation, you might say. Since you were lying stretched out in the stern, you would be practically hidden by darkness. One might easily conclude that I was the intended victim of this little joke, if it may be called that, and that you had stepped in the way of it.” “But why should they run you down?” The question slipped unbidden from Florence’s lips. It went unanswered. They bailed out the boat, took it in tow, then rowed back as they had come, in silence. “Why should anyone wish to run you down?” The lady of the island asked this question quite abruptly the moment they entered the cabin. “Why I—I don’t know.” Florence remained silent for a moment before she added, “We have heard that there is an actress visiting the Eries, those rich people over on the far point. From the description, it might be Green Eyes.” “Green Eyes? What a name!” The mystery lady opened her eyes wide. “It’s not her real name,” Florence hastened to assure her. “She’s Jensie Jameson.” “Oh! I have seen her. She is quite marvelous. But why do you call her Green Eyes?” “Perhaps we’re not quite fair to her. She seems jealous of my friend here. Green-eyed, as we have a way of saying. Besides, in some lights her eyes are truly green.” “Green Eyes.” The tone of the mystery lady became reflective. “How terrible! What can be worse than jealousy? Hatred is bad. But jealousy! How many beautiful friendships have been destroyed, how many happy homes wrecked by jealousy. If I were given to that terrible sin, I should fight it day and night. “As for this affair—” She changed the subject abruptly. “I think you may feel at ease. Unless I miss my guess, this bit of misfortune was not meant for you at all. “And now—” She swung about. “What of to-night? Your clothes are not dry. I can loan you some. But are you not afraid to return to camp at this late hour?” “We have little to fear.” Florence smiled in a strange way. “We have a bear.” “A bear?” “A pet bear.” “But you?” said Petite Jeanne. “Are you not afraid to stay here alone?” “I have never been afraid.” The strange lady’s tone was quiet, full of assurance. “Besides, I trust God and keep my powder dry.” She glanced at the two guns hanging above her bed. “I have no right to be afraid. It is my business not to be. “You may leave these on the little dock to-morrow,” she said, as she helped the girls into some loose fitting house dresses. “You will find your own there.” A moment later Florence saw the door to the cabin close as she pushed away from the dock. A dark bulk greeted them at their own door. This was Tico, Petite Jeanne’s bear, her companion in the gypsy dance which, they hoped, was to make her famous. They had brought him along in order that, alone and quite unmolested in natural surroundings, the heart of the north woods, Jeanne might practice her part in the forthcoming play. Next morning Jeanne and Tico, the bear, wandered away into the forest. Florence went fishing. There is a type of fishing for every mood. This day Florence wished to think. Since she was in no mood for silent meditation she fastened a large spoon-hook to her fifty yard line, dropped rod and reel in the bottom of the boat, wrapped the line about her right hand, then went trolling along the edge of a weed bed. The water rippled slightly, the rushes nodded now and then to a gust of wind. Her oars made a low dip-dip as she glided across the water. She did not expect to get a bite. She was trolling more for thoughts than for fish. Into her mind crowded many questions. Who was the lady of the island? Why did her blue eyes reflect so much of fearless daring? Why this strange retreat? Why the automatics above her bed? Why was she here at all? There was something about this young woman that suggested intrigue, crime, possible violence. “And yet, in such surroundings!” She laughed out loud. “Could there be a more peaceful spot in all the world?” And indeed, could there be? Half a mile down the bay a tiny village basked in the sun. A general store, a confectionery, a grocery, a post office, a few scattered cabins and cottages; this was Cedar Point. To right and left of her lay deep bays. Bays and points alike were dotted with summer cottages, where tired city people came to rest and fish. Across the bay, half a mile away, were islands. Four of these islands were small, one large. There, too, were cottages. Who lived in those cottages? To this question she could form only a vague answer. Two or three were owned by millionaires with speed boats and yachts. “They can have them.” She gave her line a fling. “Gas driven things. Bah!” Her splendid muscles set her boat shooting forward. “What’s better than the good old oars and a boat that’s light and fast?” “I wish, though,” she added with a scowl, “that they’d leave us alone.” This sent her thoughts off on another tack. Once more her line was forgotten. “Those people in that speed boat last night meant to run someone down,” she said with assurance. “Question is, who? And why? Were they after Petite Jeanne? Was it Green Eyes? Or were they after the lady of the island? She believes they were after her. But why were they after her? She didn’t tell me a thing. She—” Of a sudden there came a great tug at her line. “Wow!” she cried, dropping the oars and snatching at her pole. “Got a fish. Wonder what— “Wow, what a yank!” She gained possession of her rod in the nick of time. Not ten feet of line were on her reel when she seized the handle and held fast. For a space of ten seconds it seemed the stout line would snap. Then it went slack. “Dumb! Lost him. I— “No.” She reeled in furiously. The fish was coming toward her. Then he whirled about. As the line went taut again the fish leaped high out of the water. “A pike or a muskie!” she murmured. “I must have him!” A battle royal followed. Now the fish, yielding stubbornly yard by yard, approached the boat. Then, catching sight of her, he leaped away, making the reel sing. Again she had him under control. Not for long. A raging demon fighting for freedom he was. For fully a quarter of an hour she fought him until, quite worn out, he yielded, and a twenty pound muskie shot head foremost into her landing net. “To think,” she exclaimed, “that I could come out to mull things over and should catch such a fish! “Ah well, life’s that way. I come to think. I catch a fish. We come here seeking absolute quiet, and what do we find? Mystery, intrigue, and all that promises to keep us up late nights figuring out the next move on the checkerboard of life.” |
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