The Crystal Ball

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XIII A STARTLING REVELATION

  And tomorrow did tell. Scarcely had Jeanne paid her two dollars to thefortune teller, Myrtle Rand, than the fortune Florence had promised herbegan unfolding itself.

  "The cards say this--" Myrtle Rand shuffled and dealt, shuffled and dealtagain. "I see this and this and this in the crystal ball." Nothing ofimportance was changed. Jeanne had heard it all before. Florence had toldher.

  "But how could she know that the fortune teller would say all this?" shekept asking herself. "And almost all of it untrue."

  She was still asking herself this question when she joined Florence forlunch two hours later.

  "How could you know?" she demanded.

  "Very simple," Florence replied in high glee. "I told her all that overthe phone."

  "But why?" Jeanne stared.

  "Can't you see?" Florence replied, "I was testing her system which, afterall, is a very simple one. The first time you visited her she, on a verysimple pretext, got the name and address of someone who knows you. Onstill another pretext she called me on the phone to ask about you,thinking me your hair-dresser, and I told her things that were entirelyuntrue."

  "And if they had been true," Jeanne exclaimed, "if I had known nothing ofthe phone call, how astonished I should have been to find that she couldget so much of my past from the cards and the crystal ball!"

  "To be sure. And, quite naturally, you would have had great faith in herprophecies for the future."

  "Florence!" Jeanne cried, "she is a fraud!"

  "Yes," Florence agreed. "But not a very great fraud.

  "Tillie, Fronie and Dick will have ice cream and cake for dinner," shesaid softly.

  "Who are they?" Jeanne asked in surprise.

  "They are three foundlings that Myrtle Rand is befriending. So-o,"Florence ended slowly, "I shall not write up Myrtle Rand, at least notwith her real name and address. I shall, however, make a good story ofour grand discovery.

  "And that," she added abruptly, "brings me to another subject. Sandy isflying north tomorrow to witness the moose trapping."

  "Tomorrow!"

  "That's it. You may as well hurry home and pack your bag. As for me, thatmay spell defeat. I'll have to write my own stories, and if I fail--" Shedid not finish, but the look on her face was a sober one. She had come tolove her strange task. She had planned some things that to her seemedquite important. She must not fail.

  That evening at ten they sat once more before the fire, Florence, Jeanneand Miss Mabee. Because Jeanne was to go flying away through the cloudsnext morning, they were in a mellow mood.

  Marie Mabee rested easily in her deeply cushioned chair before the fire.She was wrapped in a dressing gown of gorgeous hue, a bright red, trimmedin deepest blue. Upon the sleeves was some strange Oriental design. Onher feet, stretched out carelessly before the fire, were low shoes ofshark skin, red like the gown. With her sleek black hair combed straightback from the high forehead, with her deep dark eyes shining and herunique profile half hidden by shadows, she seemed to Florence somestrange princess just arrived from India.

  "What is it," Marie Mabee spoke at last, "what is it we ask of life?"

  "Peace. Happiness. Beauty," Jeanne spoke up quickly.

  "Success. Power," Florence added.

  "Peace--" Marie Mabee's tone was mellow. "Ah, yes, how many there are whoseek real peace and never find it! I wonder if we have it, you and youand I." She spread her long slender hands out before the fire.

  "And why not?" She laughed a laugh that was like the low call of birds atsunset. "Is this not peace? We are here before the fire. No one wishes todo us harm, or at least they cannot reach us. We have food, shelter and amodest share of life's beautiful things. Do we not have peace? Ah, yes.But if not, then it is our own fault.

  "'The mind has its own place, and of itself can make a heaven of hell, ora hell of heaven.'

  "But beauty?" Her tone changed. She sat bolt upright. "Yes, we wantbeauty." Her eyes swept the room. There were elaborate draperies, a tinyclock of solid gold, an ivory falcon, an exquisite bust of pure whitemarble, all the works of art she had gathered about her, and above themall, one great masterpiece, "Sheep on the Hillside." "Yes," she agreed,"we have a craving for beauty. All have that perhaps. Some much more thanothers. But beauty--" she sprang to her feet. "Beauty, yes! Yes, we musthave beauty first, last and always."

  As she began marching slowly back and forth before the fire, Florence wasshocked by the thought that she resembled a sleek black leopard."Nonsense!" she whispered to herself.

  "Happiness? Yes." Marie Mabee dropped back to her place of repose."Happiness may be had by all. The simplest people are happiest becausetheir wants are few. Or are they?"

  Neither Jeanne nor Florence knew the answer. Who does?

  "But success," Florence insisted. "Yes, and power."

  "Success?" There was a musing quality in Marie Mabee's voice. "I wonderif success is what I am always striving for? Or do I make picturesbecause I enjoy creating beauty?

  "After all--" she flung her arms wide. "What does it matter?

  "But power!" Her tone changed. "No! No! I have no desire for power. Leavethat to the rich man, to the rulers, anyone who desires it. I have no usefor power. Give me peace, beauty, happiness, and, if you insist, success,and I will do without all the rest."

  After that, for a long time there was silence in the room. Florencestudied the faces of her companions, each beautiful in its own way, shewondered if they were thinking or only dreaming.

  For herself, she was soon lost in deep thought. To her mind had come apicture of Frances Ward. Her littered desk, her tumbled hair, her brighteager eyes, the slow procession of unfortunate and unhappy ones thatpassed all day long before that desk of hers--all stood out in boldrelief.

  "What does Frances Ward want?" she asked herself. "Peace ... beauty ...happiness ... success?" She wondered.

  Here were two people, Marie Mabee and Frances Ward. How strangelydifferent they were! And yet, what wonderful friends they had both beento her!

  "Life," she whispered, "is strange. Perhaps there was a time when FrancesWard too wanted peace, beauty, happiness, success for herself, just asMiss Mabee does. But now she desires happiness for others--that and thatalone.

  "Perhaps," she concluded, "I too shall want only that when I am old.

  "And yet--"

  Ah, that disquieting "And yet--." She was wondering in her own way whatthe world would be like if everyone sought first the happiness of others.

  Upon her thoughts there broke the suddenly spoken words of Marie Mabee,"Let us have beauty. By all means! Beauty first, last and always!"

  Two hours later Florence sat alone in the half darkness that enshroudedthe studio. The others had retired for the night. She was still engagedin the business of putting her thoughts to bed.

  It was a strange little world she found herself in at this time. Havingstarted out, with an amused smile, to discover novel and interestingnewspaper stories about people who pretended to understand other men'sminds, who read their bumps, studied the stars under which they wereborn, psychoanalyzed their minds, told their fortunes and all the rest,she found herself delving deeper, ever deeper into the mysteries of theirstrange cults. Ever striving to divide the true from the false, trackingdown, as best she could, those who were frauds and robbers, she had atlast got herself into a difficult if not dangerous situation.

  "There's that gypsy woman who stole from a poor widow," she told herself."Jeanne's going away. That cannot wait. I'll have to find that gypsy. Andthen--?"

  Then there was June Travis and her lost father. Madame Zaran was on hertrail; the voodoo priestess too. June had made one more visit to thepriestess. She was afraid the girl had said too much. At any rate, shewas sure the priestess had demanded a large fee for finding the lostfather.

  "_I_ shall find him," the big girl said, springing to her feet. "I must!"

  Her eyes fell upon a pi
cture standing on a low easel in the corner. Itwas the one done on thin paper. "That is for Tum Morrow's party," shethought. "Well, Tum Morrow's party will have to wait.

  "Jeanne's going away will leave us lonely," she sighed. "But who canblame her? Isle Royale was beautiful in summer. What must it be inwinter?"

  For a time she stood there dreaming of rushing waters, leaf-brown trailsand sighing spruce trees. Then she turned to make her way slowly acrossthe room, up the narrow stairway and into her own small chamber.

  One question remained to haunt her even in her dreams. Were all fortunetellers like Myrtle Rand? Did they secure their facts in an underhandedmanner, then pass them on to you as great surprises? Who could answerthis? Surely not Florence.