by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XVI A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
Jeanne had lost her spy. She had lost herself as well. Only after muchflying and four landings was she able to find her way back to the spotwhere Madame Bihari patiently awaited her. When she arrived the sun wassetting once more and it was again time for tea.
As on the previous night, Jeanne lay long beneath her canopy of red andgold. But no silver plane came to shine down upon her.
"Marvelous plane," she murmured. "Wonder if I shall ever see it again,or learn the secret of its shining beauty?"
On the day following the dance, Florence took a forenoon off to climb tothe crest of a hill that overlooked the city. She sat herself down upona heap of fallen leaves, then proceeded to indulge in an occupationquite unusual for a girl. Selecting a fine smooth stick that had lainlong enough upon the ground to become brittle and all sort of "whitty,"she began to whittle. A boy cousin had long ago introduced her to thejoyous art of whittling. What did she make? Mostly nothing at all. Shejust whittled. And as she carved away at the brittle wood, she thought.Long, deep thoughts they were too. Ah yes, there was the charm ofwhittling--it made thinking easy.
"If it wasn't all so tranquil and beautiful, I'd leave it," she thoughtas her eyes took in the scene beneath her feet. Yes, it surely wasbeautiful. The red brick factory, built beside a rushing stream, quiteold and all covered with vines, had a quiet charm all its own. Besideit, reflecting the golden glory of autumn trees, was the millpond.Beyond that the water flowing over the dam, sparkled like a thousanddiamonds.
"Yes," she murmured, "it is beautiful. I did not know that old NewEngland could be so entrancing. And yet, it is not the city, thefactory, the hills, the trees that hold you. It's the people."
This was true. There was the little family in the canary-cage house whohad taken her in. The room she and Verna occupied was so small. Therewas hardly room to move about. Yet they were happy. Verna was obliging,kind and generous to a fault. More important than that, she was eager toknow about everything. And she, Florence, knew so many, many thingsabout which this child of a small city had scarcely dreamed. They talkedat night, hours on end.
Strangely enough as she thought of this flower-like girl, a suddenmental image gave her a picture of Hugo, the idol of last night'saffair. She could see him now as plainly as she might if his picture hadbeen thrown upon a screen before her. His dark eyes were flashing, histangled hair tossing, his white teeth gleaming, as he exclaimed: "That'sfine! Now let's have a little jazz!"
She shuddered. Somehow, she did not wish to think of Verna and Hugo atthe same instant. And yet if asked why, she could not have found asensible reply.
"Surely," she said to the trees, the hills and the city before her, "heis handsome, gallant and popular. Who could ask for more?"
And the hills seemed to echo back, "Who? Who? Who?"
Ah yes, who? For all this, Florence was experiencing a feeling ofunhappiness over the whole affair. "Why?" she asked herself. "Why?"
She did not have high social ambitions, of this she was certain.Happiness, she knew, could not be attained by sitting close to the headof the table at a banquet, nor of being intimate with great and richpeople. Happiness came from within. And yet this had been her firstlittle social venture. Always before she had worked in the gymnasium oron the playground. This time she had planned something different,planned it well. She had dreamed a new dream and the thing had notturned out as she had expected. The thing she had planned would, she hadhoped, be beautiful. Had this affair ended beautifully? She was to betold in a few hours that it had been wonderful. Just now she wasthinking, "There was plenty of noise." Once Hugo had dumped out a wholebank of flowers to seize the tub that had held them, and beat it for adrum. Everyone had laughed and shouted. There had been no beautifulmoonlight waltz at the end, only a wild burst of sound.
"Probably I'm soft and sentimental," she told herself. "And yet--" shewas thinking of Danby Force. "Our people," he had said, "seemed a littledull, so I hired Hugo. Thought he might stir them up with hissaxophone."
He _had_ stirred them up--some of them. Some remained just as they hadbeen. Her little family in the canary-cage house were that sort. Theylived simply, quietly, snugly in that tiny house. They did not ask for abigger house. They had no car. They did not crave excitement. Theirlives were like small, deep, still running streams.
Once those streams had been disturbed, horribly disturbed. That was whenthe mill shut down four years before. It was Tom Maver, father of thefamily, who had told her about it. Tom was a small, quiet sort of man.
"I've worked in the mill since I was sixteen," he said. "Always tendinga bank of spinning wheels. Never did anything else. We were happy. Hadour home, our garden, our little orchard all snug and cozy.
"Then," he had sighed, "mills down south where labor is cheap, childlabor and all that, cut in on our trade. The mill shut down. I had tofind work. I went to a farm. They set me cutting corn, by hand. The cornwas taller than I was, and heavier. I lasted three days. My face andhands were cut, and my back nearly broken. I was sick when I came home."A look of pain overspread his honest face. "I tried ditch-digging and,in winter, putting up ice. That was terrible. I fell in and was nearlydrowned. After that I--I just gave up.
"Well," he sighed, "we didn't starve, but we didn't miss it much.
"But now," he added brightly, "the mill is running and we are happy."
"Yes," Florence thought to herself, "they say they are happy, and Ibelieve they are. And that's what counts most--happiness." Yes, that wasit. They did not need jazz and a saxophone, a grinning Hugo and hisroaring tub to make them happy. They had something better, a simple,kindly peace.
"Jazz," she murmured. "It seems to get into people's very lives." Shewas thinking now of a friend, a beautiful girl not yet twenty. Her lifewas a round of jazz dances. Her doctor had ordered her to an island inLake Superior for her health. She had been taking drugs for hay fever.This was affecting her heart. On this island there was no hay fever. Shehad escaped hay fever, but there was no jazz and her cigarettes ran out."In another week I should have died--simply died," she had said toFlorence. And Florence knew she had spoken the truth. "How terrible tobecome a slave to habits that are not necessary to our lives!" shewhispered. "And yet, I must not judge others. I only can try to selectthe best from both the old and the new for myself."
As she sat there looking down upon the city, thinking of its joys andits sorrows, its successes and its perils, she was like some broodingGreek goddess dreaming of the future.
Suddenly she stood up straight and tall. Flinging her arms wide, sheremained thus, motionless as a statue. She was beautiful, was this girlof strong heart and a strong body, beautiful as heroic Greek statuary isbeautiful. Standing there, she saw the sun come out from behind a cloudto bathe the hillside with its glory of light. Racing down the hill,this narrow patch of light appeared at last to linger lovingly over thelittle city.
"It is a sign," the girl whispered. "In the end troubles shall bebanished!" For the moment her face was transfigured by some strangelight from within. Then she turned to walk slowly down the hill.
As she entered the grounds that surrounded the mill, she was startled tosee a strange figure half hidden by a wild cranberry bush at a spot nearthe gate. At first she believed him to be hiding there and thoughtswiftly, "This may be the spy!" Next instant she realized that he wasraking dead leaves from beneath the bush.
A strange, rather horrible sort of person he appeared to be. His hairwas kinky and cut short, his dark face all but covered with a shortcurly beard. His bare arms were long and hairy. As he rested there, bentover, clawing at the leaves, he resembled an ape. He grinned horribly atthe girl as she passed, but did not speak.
"One more newcomer to the community," was her mental comment. "But ofcourse, since he works about the yard he does not enter the mill. Hecould scarcely be the spy. And yet--" she wondered how strong the locksand bolts of doors and windows wer
e and whether it were possible, afterall, for the spy to come from without, at night.
On enquiry she was to discover that at night the plant was guarded by awatchman, one of the oldest employees of the place, and entirelytrustworthy.
For the moment, however, she was bent on entering the mill. She likedits din, loved to see the speeding shuttles and feel the movement oflife about her. Besides, she had not forgotten what Danby Force hadsaid: "Things often happen in the mill after a jazz night." She thoughtof the girl who had fallen into a vat of blue dye. "Has anythinghappened today, I wonder?" she whispered to herself.
