  That evening Florence, reposing on an affair of white birch and pillows that was half chair and half couch, lived for a time in both the past and the future. Once more beneath the moon she battled her way toward the mystery cabin on the island. Again she stood looking at its strange interior and its puzzling tenant. With a vividness that was all but real, she saw the gleam of black waters as they neared Gamblers’ Island. “Gamblers’ Island,” she mused. “A lady cop. What is one to make of all that? “And the gypsies? How did they come to that island? Can it be that they truly have a speed boat? Did they run us down? Or was it the young people at the millionaire’s cabin, and Green Eyes? “Perhaps neither. It may be that the lady cop is right; that someone meant to run her down instead. But who could it be?” A thought came to her. That day she had seen a speed boat leave Gamblers’ Island. Might there not be reason enough for the gamblers wishing to run down the mystery lady? “A lady cop. What could be more natural? Gamblers fear detectives. “But are there gamblers on that island?” Once more she was up against a stone wall. She knew nothing of those who lived on the island. She wished that the lady cop were more communicative. “Perhaps she will tell me much in time.” Only one thing stood out clearly. In so far as was possible, Petite Jeanne must be protected from all these uncertainties and strange doings. She must have peace and rest. Great opportunity lay just before her. She must be prepared for it. As if reading her thoughts, Jeanne suddenly sprang to her feet. “I wish,” she exclaimed, “that I might practice my part back there in the forest in the moonlight. It would help to make it real.” “Well, why not?” Florence rose. “Why not, indeed?” Jeanne danced across the floor. “Come, Tico!” she called, as she danced out of her bathrobe and into a gaudy gypsy costume. “To-night there is work to be done.” Florence knew that it required real courage for Jeanne to take this step. She was afraid of dark places at night. “And what is more spooky than a woodland trail at night?” she asked herself. Her admiration for the little French girl grew. “She has real grit,” she told herself. “She means to succeed; she will do anything that will aid in making success possible. “And she will succeed! She must!” By the gleam of a small flashlight, they made their way, now between tall cedars that stood like sentinels beside their path, and now beneath broad fir trees that in the night seemed dark Indian wigwams. They crossed a narrow clearing where the vacant windows of an abandoned homesteader shanty stared at them. They entered the forest again, to find it darker than before. The moon had gone under a black cloud. “Boo!” shuddered Jeanne. “How quite terrible it all is!” Tico rubbed against her. He appeared to understand. When at last they came to the little grass-grown spot where Jeanne was accustomed to do her bit of acting, the moon was out again, the grass glowed soft and green, and the whole setting seemed quite jolly as Tico playfully chased a rabbit into a clump of balsams. “It is charming,” said Jeanne, clapping her hands. “Now I shall dance as I have never danced before.” And she did. Florence, who had witnessed the whole drama as it was played on the stage, dropped to a tuft of green that lay in the shadowy path, and allowed herself to enter fully into the scene as it would be enacted on that memorable night when the little French girl should make her first appearance before an American audience. “It is night on a battlefield of France,” she whispered to herself. “The wounded and dead have been carried away. Only broken rifles and two shattered cannon are to be seen. Petite Jeanne is alone with it all. “Jeanne is a blonde-haired gypsy. Until this moment she has cherished a great hope. Now she has learned that the hope is groundless. More than that, she believes that her gypsy lover has perished in this day’s battle. “The depth of her sorrow is immeasurable. One fact alone brings her comfort. She has still her pet bear and her art, the art of dancing. “On this lonely battlefield, with the golden moon beaming down upon her, she begins to do the rhythmic dance of the gypsy.” Even as she came to this part of the drama’s story, Jeanne and the bear began to dance. “It is exquisite!” she whispered softly. “The moonlight has got into her very blood. If only, on that great night, she can feel the thing as she does to-night!” She did not say more. She did not even think any more. She watched with parted lips as the slender girl, appearing to turn into an elf, went gliding across the green. The dance was all but at an end when suddenly, without warning, the big girl was given a shock that set her blood running cold. A twig snapped directly behind her. It was followed by an audible gasp. At such a time, in such a place, carried away as she had been by the dramatic picture spread out before her, nothing could have startled her more. Yet she must act. She was Jeanne’s defender. Strangers were here in the night. Who? Gypsies? Gamblers? Indians? She sprang to her feet and whirled about to stare down the trail. “No one,” she whispered. The dance was at an end. Jeanne threw herself upon the ground, exhausted but apparently quite unafraid. “She did not hear. I must not frighten her. She may never know.” Florence walked slowly toward her companion. “Come,” she said quietly. “It is damp here; not a safe place to rest. We must go.” Jeanne rose wearily to follow her. Strangely enough, as they made their way back over the trail they came upon no sign that anyone had been there besides themselves. Stranger still, Florence and Jeanne were to hear of that gasp weeks later, and in a place far, far away. Of such weird miracles are some lives made. |
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