“But what a strange language!” she thought to herself.
She concluded that she must be entering some Finnish settlement.
“Safe enough,” she reassured herself.
For all that, she moved forward cautiously. Safety first. She was far from her own cabin.
She had just reached a point where, by parting the bushes, she thought she might be able to catch a glimpse of the strangers, when, with the suddenness of an eagle’s cry, a scream rent the air. And after that, another and yet another. They were a woman’s screams.
“What is this?” she asked herself, as her cheeks blanched and the blood seemed to stand still in her veins. “Is this a murder?”
The question spurred her to action. She was young and strong as a man. If someone needed aid, it was her duty to step out and do her bit.
With little thought of further concealment, she moved rapidly through the thin screen of brush.
Imagine her surprise when, upon emerging, she saw a man and a woman, gypsies, both splashing through the lake water to their waists.
Mystification replaced surprise and fear but for a moment. It was replaced by sorrow; for, suddenly stooping beside a great rock, the gypsy man put out his hand and lifted a small form from the water.
“The child!” she exclaimed in a low voice, tense with emotion. “Their child! She has been playing on the rocks. A wave caused by some passing ship carried her away. Perhaps they did not notice in time. She may be dead.”
Without having seen Florence, the gypsies waded ashore. There, with a look of infinite sadness, the man placed the dripping child on the ground.
The woman joined him. And there they stood, the two of them, in the bowed attitudes of those who mourn for the dead.
It came to the girl then that these gypsies, who had spent all their lives in caravans on land, knew little or nothing of the water, which they had apparently adopted as their temporary home.
No sooner had she thought this than she sprang into action. Without so much as a “May I?” or “If you please,” she leaped forward, pushed the astonished parents aside, seized the child and held her, head down, in the air. Water poured from the child’s nose and mouth. Next, Florence placed her across the trunk of a fallen tree and rocked her back and forth. At last she laid her on the ground and began to work her arms in an attempt to restore respiration.
All this time the gypsies stood looking upon her as if she might be a goddess or a demon, sent to restore or devour their child.
Suddenly the child sneezed.
On hearing this, the gypsy woman once more sent forth a piercing scream, then threw herself upon Florence’s neck.
Shaking herself free, Florence resumed her work.
A moment later the child began to cry.
A few husky wails from the child, and Florence’s work was complete.
After removing the child’s damp clothing, Florence joined the man in making a fire. She taught the woman, who had partially regained her composure, how to chafe the child’s hands and feet; then she prepared to leave them.
“I wish Jeanne were here,” she told herself. “I would like to know who they are, where they came from, and why they are here. So would Jeanne. But Jeanne is far away. If I bring her here they will be gone. I cannot take them to her. Have to trust to good fortune to bring us together again.”
Did she trust in vain?
If she had seen the look on that woman’s face as she once more vanished into the forest, she would have known certainly that in this world there was one person who would, if fate required it, go to the gallows or the electric chair for her.
Thus does fate play with the children of men. She casts before them golden opportunities. If they prove themselves steadfast, true and fearless, in her own good time, in some far future it may be, in ways of which they do not dream, she sends her reward.
CHAPTER XVIII
REVERIES
Florence had not lost herself in the forest. Though she had not the slightest notion what shore she stood on at the time she brought the gypsy child back to life, she experienced little difficulty in finding her way back to her cabin.
Two hours had not elapsed when once more she sat before her own fire, drinking strong coffee and relating her adventure to Jeanne.
“But the poor gypsy child!” Jeanne exclaimed as she finished. “Out in such weather. And after such an adventure!”
“Their camp must have been very near,” replied Florence. “And you know well enough that the gypsies can arrange a cozy camp out of less than nothing at all.”
“Oh yes, yes, surely that is so!” exclaimed the little French girl.
“But how unkind fate is.” Her tone changed. She became sad. “Here I am pining my heart away for one look at some gypsy friends. And all I see is three tiny twigs they have touched, their patteran, while you, who care so little, meet them at every turn.”
“When the storm is over,” Florence sought to console her, “we will row over to that island where we saw their camp. Perhaps they are still there.”
“They will not be.” Jeanne refused to be comforted. “Always they are on the move. When one meets them, the proper thing to say is, ‘Where do you come from today? Where do you go to-morrow?’
“How strange these gypsies are!” Jeanne mused after a moment of silence. “Always they are on islands and on points of land where there are no roads. They travel by water. Water gypsies. How quite novel that is! And yet, in southern France there are some such people. There are villages where all the fisher-folk are gypsies. Brave and daring seamen they are, too.
“Ah, yes, very brave. You must not think that gypsies are cowards. Gypsies fought in the great war, fought and died. Ah, yes! So you see this beautiful story of the stage, this play in which I am to have so wonderful a part, this tale of gypsies in war, is not without its parallel in life.”
At that she lapsed into silence. She was thinking again of that night, which each sunset found a day nearer, when on an American stage, before many hundreds of people, she should dance the gypsy tarantella on a miniature battlefield beneath the light of an imaginary moon.
At such times as this, Florence loved to watch the changes that passed over Jeanne’s face. As she imagined herself in the wings, awaiting her cue, a look of uncertainty, almost of fear, was written there. As, still in her imagination, she stepped out to face her audience, a wistful expression banished fear. After that, as she entered into the compelling rhythm of the dance, came complete transformation. Her face, warmed as if by the mellow light of the morning sun, became the face of a Madonna.
“I only hope,” Florence thought to herself, “that the play proves a great success. It means so much to her. And she is so kind-hearted, so unspoiled. She has lost so much; has so much to win.”
“Listen to the rain!” cried Jeanne. “Who would believe it could come down so hard?”
“Three days’ rain. That’s what the old timers say it will be. We have so little time to spend here. And there is so much that might be done.” Florence sighed.
“Do you know,” she spoke again, after watching the glow of the fire and listening to the steady patter-patter on the roof, “living in a place like this affects me strangely.”
She stretched herself full length in the great cedar chair. “I feel as if I had always lived here, never been out of the woods; as if I were very poor, ignorant and strong. I find it hard to believe that I have warm, soft, bright garments of fine spun cotton and silk. It is as if my garments had always been of brown homespun, my boots of coarsest leather, my hat of rain-proof stuff; as if I tramped days and days over miles of trail that would weary city-dwellers, but can only bring fresh joy to the one of browned features and brawny limbs.
“And why not?” she cried with some passion, sitting up quite abruptly. “Why not a cabin like this, and peace? In winter the trap line, a long, long tramp in high boots through drifted snow. A weasel pelt here, a mink there, and by this pond muskrat skins.
/> “And out over the lake’s four foot ice, far across the frozen inland sea to Goose Island. There a fish shanty, a hole in the ice, twenty fathoms of line and a rich catch of lake trout and sturgeon. Why not always at night the crackling fire, the bacon and corn bread eaten with a relish because one is truly hungry?
“Why not? No worry about room rent, a run in a silk stocking or a frayed Sunday dress. Why not always boots of cowhide and coats of canvas that do not wear out?”
“Oh! but after all you are a girl,” smiled Petite Jeanne.
“In this day,” said Florence with great emphasis, “that does not matter. All that matters is that I am as strong as a man; that if I choose I can follow a man’s trap line or fish in a man’s shanty over the frozen lake.”
“That is not all.” The French girl’s tone was quiet, full of assurance. “Women are born with a desire for beauty, softness and color. We live for that which we see and touch; your eye catches the glorious red, the orange, the blue of a gown, and it enchants you. Is it not so?”
“Yes, but here at the edge of the lake we have the sunset. What could be more gorgeous?
“Ah! But that you cannot touch.
“Did you never note?” Jeanne’s tone grew serious. “Did you never come to realize how much we live for the sense of touch? A scarf of silken gold is held out before you. You say,‘Let me see it.’ But you hold out a hand. Why? You wish to touch it. You have missed a friend for a long time. She returns. Your hands, your lips, meet. Why? Because you are not happy until you have touched the one you love.
“No, no, Miss Florence! This is very wonderful, very peaceful. It is so very grand. But after all, it is only for now.
“To-morrow, next day, sometime very soon you are going to hear the call of the city, to feel its pull at your heart. All the bright lights, the colors, the shouts, the throngs will call to you. And you will go. For there, after all, is life. Life—beautiful, rushing, throbbing life. That, my dear friend, is a city. It is found nowhere else.”
Leaping from her chair, the little French girl went whirling across the floor in her fantastic dance. She danced herself quite out of the cabin and out into the rain, leaving Florence to meditate upon her strange words, to conclude that Jeanne was more than half right, then to spring suddenly to her feet, crying:
“Come back here, Petite Jeanne! Come back right now. You will die of pneumonia.”
“Ever hear of a sprite dying of pneumonia?” Jeanne’s eyes were as full of laughter as her golden locks were of water, as she came dancing back.
“You’re not a sprite,” said Florence. “Even if you were one, who had taken human form, I’d have to keep you human until that play had its run.”
“Oh! the blessed play!” said the French girl contritely, at the same time snatching at her drenched garments. “How one does hate being in training for anything.”
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white, woolly blanket, she sat toasting before a fire. At this moment everything, past and future, was forgotten in the glorious now.
CHAPTER XIX
THE STOLEN TRUNK
The three days’ rain became a reality. A steady downpour, that set the forest mourning in earnest and turned the lake into a blanket of gray, settled down over all.
Petite Jeanne did not care. She had been sent north to rest. There was still a pile of unread romances in the corner cupboard. The shed at the back of the cabin was piled high with dry wood. The fire burned ever brightly. What more could she wish?
When she tired of reading she called to Tico, who lay sleeping by the fire hours on end, and together they went through some difficult step of the gypsy dance.
To Florence, save for one condition, this prolonged downpour would have seemed nothing short of a catastrophe. She was shut away from her beloved out-of-doors, but this only gave her more time to spend with that fascinating person, the lady cop.
The lady cop had become all but a pal to Florence and Tillie. Every evening, after the day’s work was done and darkness had blanketed the water, Tillie came stealing over to the mystery cabin.
And she never lacked a welcome. She gave the lady cop many a needed bit of information. With her aid, the lady cop had so far progressed in her investigation that she whispered to them on the second day of the rain that soon she would be ready to wire for reënforcements. When these arrived she would spring the trap.
“And then?” Florence breathed.
“Then the three rubies will be in my hands. And someone will go to jail.
“But let’s not talk too much,” she added. “The best laid plans fail often enough.”
The hour of the day that Florence and Tillie loved best was the one which preceded the lady cop’s shooing them out for the night. At that hour, after brewing herself a cup of coffee and drinking it steaming hot, she spun weird tales of her adventures as a lady detective.
An only child of a police captain, at the age of eighteen she had seen her father brought home dead, shot in the back while assisting in a raid on a notorious gambling house. Over her father’s dead body she had vowed that she would take his place.
When the time came, when she was of age, her mother, having no boys to give to the great service of protecting humanity, had smilingly, tearfully, given that which she had, a girl. And to the city she had already proved herself a priceless gift.
Working her way secretly into places where no man could ever have entered, she had brought to light places of vice and crime which for long years had remained hidden in the dark.
Time and again she had succeeded in attaching herself to some wild young set, and in so doing had not alone shown them their folly, but had also brought those who preyed upon them to justice.
“It’s not always easy to place money on the board,” she said one night, “on the gaming board, with a hand that does not tremble, when you realize that there are those watching who would gladly kill you, did they but know who you were.
“Twice I was discovered and locked up. One of these times I let myself out of the window to the street two floors below on a rope made of my own skirt. The other time a squad wagon came in time to release me.
“Listen to this!” Her eyes burned brightly. “Never believe the stories you read in cheap magazines. These stories tell you that crooks are really good sports, generous, chivalrous and all that. They are not—not one in a thousand. They are hard as flint; cruel, heartless, ready for any savage deed that will give them liberty and the wild life they crave.”
After this outburst on that second rainy night, she lapsed into silence.
In time she sprang to her feet and drew on her raincoat. “I am going out for a row alone in the dark,” she said. “Stay here and keep the fire burning. It’s not late. I’ll be back in an hour.”
She left the cabin. Tillie and Florence sat by the fire.
“Ever hear how this cabin came here?” Tillie asked.
“No,” Florence replied quickly.
“It’s sort of interesting. I’ll tell you.”
“Oh! Please do!”
“This,” Tillie began, “was once the cabin of a ship.”
“It looks the part,” replied Florence. “But where are the portholes?”
“Someone has covered them.” Tillie stepped to the wall, fumbled for a short time with a fastening, then swung back a section of the paneling which was, in reality, a small door, revealing a circle of brass framing a glass.
“But why a ship’s cabin on land?” Florence’s face took on a puzzled frown.
“It was all on account of old Captain Abner Jones. His ship was wrecked on the shoals near Goose Island. She was the Mary C, just a freighter, but a good strong one.
“Captain Abner Jones had her for his first command. She was his last, too. He lived in this cabin and sailed the Great Lakes for thirty-five years.
“Then, when she struck one stormy night, through no fault of his, he refused to leave her. All through the storm he stuck there, though she was half torn to pieces
. When the storm was over, his men went out to get him.
“Still he wouldn’t come. ‘No, men. Much obliged all the same,’ he told them. ‘You’ve been a good crew. You’ll find other berths. But mine’s here. I’ll never leave this cabin.’
“The men went aside. I’ve heard my father tell it lots of times. They talked it over. They loved their old skipper. They knew the next storm would do for the ship, and him, too, if he stayed. So they made a plan.
“‘All right, Cap,’ the first mate said, when they had come back to him, ‘you have your way. And we’ll have ours, too. Give us a day, mebby two, and we’ll put this cabin in a safe place.’
“‘Meanin’ what?’ the captain asked.
“‘That we’ll set the cabin ashore, and you in her.’
“I guess the captain saw they were too strong for him, so he let them have their way.
“They took a lot more than two days. You see what a neat job they did. Why, there’s even a hold to the place! They built it of ship’s timbers.”
“A hold!” Florence stared at her.
By way of answer, Tillie began rolling up the canvas that covered the floor. When she had done this, she pried up a plank, then another. Next she sent the gleam of a flashlight into the dark depths below.
“Sure enough, a real hold!” exclaimed Florence.
“And there’s a trunk!” Tillie, too, was surprised. “How long do you suppose it’s been there?”
“Not long. See! The copper is not tarnished. It’s her trunk.” She spoke of the lady cop.
“It must be. But such a queer trunk!”
It was indeed an unusual bit of baggage. Made of some very hard tropical wood, it was bound by broad bands of copper. Strangest of all were its straps. They were four inches wide and fully three quarters of an inch thick.
“What monster has a hide like that?” Tillie asked in amazement.
“A walrus or an elephant.”
“It’s empty.”
“Quite naturally. One does not leave one’s things in a trunk in a cellar like this.”
“But it’s wide open.”
“That’s a bit strange.”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 115