by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER II "JUST NOTHING AT ALL"
The artist's name was Marie Mabee. It was in her studio that Florence, onthe evening after her strange experience with the crystal ball, foundherself seated. It was a marvelous place, that studio. It was a largeroom. Its polished floor was strewn with all manner of strange Indianrugs. Marie Mabee was American to the tips of her toes. Save for onepicture, everything in that room was distinctly American. The spinet deskwith chair that matched, the drapes and tapestries, the andirons beforethe broad open fireplace, the great comfortable upholstered chair, allthese were made in America.
The one cherished bit from the Old World that adorned the room was apicture. It was a masterpiece of the nineteenth century. In that picturethe sun shone bright upon a flock of sheep hurrying for shelter from astorm that lay black as night against the rugged hills behind. Trees werebending before a gale, the shepherd's cloak was flying, every touch toldof the approaching storm.
"It's all so very real!" Florence thought to herself as she looked at thepicture now. "It is like Marie Mabee herself. She too is real. And thethings she creates are real. That is why she is such a great success."
As if to verify her own conclusion, she looked at a canvas reposing on aneasel in the corner. The picture was almost done. It showed Petite Jeannegarbed in a bright gypsy costume, flinging arms wide in a wild gypsydance. In the background, indistinct but quite real, were wild eagerfaces, a fiddler, two singing gypsy children, and behind them the night.
Marie Mabee had determined that by her pictures there should be preservedthe memory of much that was passing in American life. The gypsies werepassing. One by one they were being swallowed up by great cities. Soonthe country would know them no more. She had taken Jeanne into her heartand home because in Jeanne's heart there lived like a flame the spirit ofthe gypsies at their best, because Jeanne knew all the gypsies and couldbring them to the studio to be posed and painted. She had taken inFlorence as well; first, because she was Jeanne's friend, and second,because, with all others, the moment she came to know her she loved her.
"It is all very wonderful!" Florence whispered to herself as, after anexciting day, she sank deeper into the great chair by the fire. "Howinspiring to live with one who has made a grand success of life, whosepictures are hung in every gallery and coveted by every rich person inthe city! And yet," she sighed contentedly, "how simple and kind she is!Not the least bit high-hat or superior. Wonder if all truly great peopleare like that? I wonder--"
She broke short off to listen. A stairway led up from the top of theelevator shaft, one floor below. She did not recognize the tread of theperson coming up the stairs. She wondered and shuddered. Somehow she feltthat on leaving that room of midnight blue and a crystal ball, she hadbeen followed. Had she? If so, why? She was not long in guessing thereason. Twice in the last few weeks she had whispered a few well-chosenwords in the ears of Patrick Moriarity, a bright young policeman who wasinterested in people, just any kind of people. Patrick had rapped oncertain doors and had said his little say. When next Florence passed thatway, there was a "For Rent" sign on the door, right where Patrick hadrapped.
"Folded their tents like the Arabs And silently stole away,"
she whispered to herself.
She wondered in a dreamy sort of way whether those people, while theyreluctantly packed a few tricks of their crooked trade, had recalled alarge, ruddy-faced girl who had visited them once or twice to have herfortune told, and did they know she was that girl?
"Fortunes!" she exclaimed. "Fortunes!" Then she laughed a low laugh.
At once her face sobered. Was it, after all, a laughing matter, thishaving your fortune told? For some surely it was not. She had seen themseated on hard chairs, waiting. There were lines of sorrow anddisappointment on their faces. They had come to ask the crystal-gazer,the palmist, the phrenologist, the reader of cards or stars, to telltheir fortune. They wanted terribly to know when the tide of fortunewould turn for them, when prosperity would come ebbing back again. Andshe, Florence, all too often could read in their faces the answer whichcame to her like the wash of the waves on a sandy shore:
"Never--never--never."
"And what do these tellers of fortunes predict?" she asked herself. Shedid not know. Only her own fortune she knew well enough. Had she not hadit told a half hundred times in the last months?
"My fortune!" she laughed anew. "What a strange fortune it would be ifall they told me came true! A castle, a farm, a city flat, a sea island,a mountain home, a dark man for a husband, a light one for a husband, andone with red hair! Whew! I'd have to be a movie actress to have all that.
"And yet--" Once again her smile vanished. Was there, after all, in someof it something real? That crystal ball now--the one she had seen thatvery afternoon. She had been told that visions truly do come to those whogaze into the crystal ball. Had she not seen visions? And thatfair-haired girl, had she not seen visions as well?
Once again her mood changed. What was it this girl had wanted to know?She had said, "My long lost father!" Was her father really lost? Who washer father? She was dressed like a child of the rich. Was she rich? Andwas she in danger?
"I must know!" Florence sprang to her feet. "I must go back there. I--"
Once again she broke short off. There came a sound from without. A keyrattled in the lock.
"Some--someone," she breathed, starting back, "and he has a key!"
Her eyes were frantically searching for a place of hiding when the doorswung open and a tall lady in a sealskin coat appeared.
"Oh! Miss Mabee!" Florence exclaimed. "It is you!"
"Yes. And why not I?" Marie Mabee laughed. "What's up? How startled youlooked!"
"Nothing--just nothing at all," Florence said in a calmer tone as shesprang forward to assist her hostess with her wraps.
"Did you see anyone on the stairs?" she asked quietly.
"No. Why? Have you stolen something?" Miss Mabee laughed. "Are youexpecting the police?"
"No, not that," Florence laughed in answer. "I've only been having myfortune told."
"Is that so dangerous?" Miss Mabee arched her brows.
"Yes, sometimes I'm afraid it is," Florence replied soberly. "I know ofone case where it cost a poor woman four hundred dollars."
"How could it?" came in a tone of surprise.
"She had the money. They told her to leave it with them for luck. Theluck was all wrong. They vanished."
"But that is an extreme case."
"Yes," Florence replied slowly, "it is extreme. And yet, in days likethese, people, who might in happier days be harmless, turn wolf and preyupon the innocent. At least, that's what Frances Ward says. And sheusually knows. She says it is the duty of those who are strong to battleagainst the wolves."
"And so you, my beautiful strong one, are battling the wolves? Good foryou!" Marie Mabee gave her sturdy arm an affectionate squeeze. "That'squite all right. Only," she laughed, "please let me know when the wolvesstart coming up the stairs."
"I--I'll try," Florence replied in a changed tone.
"And now," said Marie Mabee, "how about a nice cup of steaming chocolateand some of those rare cakes that just came from that little bakeryaround the corner?"
"Grand!" Florence exclaimed. "Here is one person who can always eat andnever regret."
"Fine!" the artist exclaimed. "It's wonderful to be strong and be able toglory in it. On with the feast!"
