Green Eyes

by Roy J. Snell

  She was just turning the prow of her boat toward the lights of home whena speed boat came roaring by. Just as they were opposite her, thesearchlight from a larger boat played for an instant on the faces ofthose in the speed boat. She recognized them instantly.

  "Green Eyes, Jensie Jameson, and that boy who sometimes rides in the'Spank Me Again'!" she exclaimed beneath her breath. "So she is trulyhere. Could it have been they who ran us down that night?

  "Green Eyes, perhaps. But not that boy. I'd trust him anywhere."

  Yet, even as she thought this, she was tempted to question her judgment.

  "Surely," she told herself, "I have placed every confidence in otherpersons, and in the end have found them unworthy. Why not this boy?"

  She rowed silently and rather sadly back to their little dock. Surelythis was a puzzling world. Perhaps, after all, she understood it aslittle as the "poor little rich girl," back there in the canoe.

  CHAPTER XVII VOICES IN THE FOREST

  The following day the weather was threatening. Dark clouds came rollingdown from the north. The biting chill they brought told that they hadjourneyed far, from the very shores of Hudson Bay.

  Petite Jeanne took one look at the out-of-doors; then she threw freshwood upon the fire, curled up in her favorite chair, and lost herself ina French romance.

  Not so, Florence. For her all days were alike. Come sunshine, come rain,come heat, come cold, calm, or storm, it was all the same to her. Theworld outside ever beckoned, and she must go.

  This day she chose to wander alone over unfamiliar trails. As she plungedinto the depths of the forest, she felt the cold and gloom press in uponher. It did not rain; yet the trees shed tears. From all about her camethe sound of their slow drip-drip-drip. A cold mist, sweeping in from thelake, enveloped all. Now and again, as she passed through a grove ofcottonwoods, a flurry of golden leaves came fluttering down.

  "Autumn is here," she told herself. "We must be going back soon. But howI long to stay!

  "I love you, love you, love you," she sang. And the song was meant forlake and beach, forest and stream, alike.

  Her trail was long that day. She wandered so far that she began to be alittle frightened.

  "Can I find my way back?" she asked herself.

  Well enough she knew that before her lay endless miles of slashings andyoung timber which were known only to the wild deer and the porcupine;that it was quite possible for one to become lost here for days andperhaps die of exposure and starvation.

  She was thinking of turning back, when to her great surprise she heardvoices.

  "In such a place!" she whispered to herself.

  At the same moment she noted that the forest ahead of her had grown thin,that she could see patches of sky beyond.

  Once more she had crossed a broad point and had come to a strange shore.

  But what shore? And who were these people?

  Again she paused. As before, she caught the sound of voices, this timemuch more distinct.

  "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 farfrom her own cabin.

  She had just reached a point where, by parting the bushes, she thoughtshe might be able to catch a glimpse of the strangers, when, with thesuddenness 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 bloodseemed to stand still in her veins. "Is this a murder?"

  The question spurred her to action. She was young and strong as a man. Ifsomeone needed aid, it was her duty to step out and do her bit.

  With little thought of further concealment, she moved rapidly through thethin 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 wasreplaced by sorrow; for, suddenly stooping beside a great rock, the gypsyman put out his hand and lifted a small form from the water.

  "The child!" she exclaimed in a low voice, tense with emotion. "Theirchild! She has been playing on the rocks. A wave caused by some passingship carried her away. Perhaps they did not notice in time. She may bedead."

  Without having seen Florence, the gypsies waded ashore. There, with alook of infinite sadness, the man placed the dripping child on theground.

  The woman joined him. And there they stood, the two of them, in the bowedattitudes of those who mourn for the dead.

  It came to the girl then that these gypsies, who had spent all theirlives in caravans on land, knew little or nothing of the water, whichthey had apparently adopted as their temporary home.

  No sooner had she thought this than she sprang into action. Without somuch as a "May I?" or "If you please," she leaped forward, pushed theastonished parents aside, seized the child and held her, head down, inthe air. Water poured from the child's nose and mouth. Next, Florenceplaced her across the trunk of a fallen tree and rocked her back andforth. At last she laid her on the ground and began to work her arms inan attempt to restore respiration.

  All this time the gypsies stood looking upon her as if she might be agoddess 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 inmaking a fire. She taught the woman, who had partially regained hercomposure, how to chafe the child's hands and feet; then she prepared toleave them.

  "I wish Jeanne were here," she told herself. "I would like to know whothey 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 cannottake them to her. Have to trust to good fortune to bring us togetheragain."

  Did she trust in vain?

  If she had seen the look on that woman's face as she once more vanishedinto the forest, she would have known certainly that in this world therewas one person who would, if fate required it, go to the gallows or theelectric chair for her.

  Thus does fate play with the children of men. She casts before themgolden opportunities. If they prove themselves steadfast, true andfearless, in her own good time, in some far future it may be, in ways ofwhich they do not dream, she sends her reward.

  CHAPTER XVIII REVERIES

  Florence had not lost herself in the forest. Though she had not theslightest notion what shore she stood on at the time she brought thegypsy child back to life, she experienced little difficulty in findingher 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 insuch weather. And after such an adventure!"

  "Their camp must have been very near," replied Florence. "And you knowwell enough that the gypsies can arrange a cozy camp out of less thannothing 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 ampining my heart away for one look at some gypsy friends. And all I see isthree tiny twigs they have touched, their patteran, while you, who careso little, meet them at every turn."

  "When the storm is over," Florence sought to console her, "we will rowover to that island where we saw their camp. Perhaps they are stillth
ere."

  "They will not be." Jeanne refused to be comforted. "Always they are onthe move. When one meets them, the proper thing to say is, 'Where do youcome from to-day? 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 noroads. They travel by water. Water gypsies. How quite novel that is! Andyet, in southern France there are some such people. There are villageswhere 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 seethis beautiful story of the stage, this play in which I am to have sowonderful a part, this tale of gypsies in war, is not without itsparallel 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, beforemany hundreds of people, she should dance the gypsy tarantella on aminiature battlefield beneath the light of an imaginary moon.

  At such times as this, Florence loved to watch the changes that passedover Jeanne's face. As she imagined herself in the wings, awaiting hercue, a look of uncertainty, almost of fear, was written there. As, stillin her imagination, she stepped out to face her audience, a wistfulexpression banished fear. After that, as she entered into the compellingrhythm of the dance, came complete transformation. Her face, warmed as ifby 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 greatsuccess. It means so much to her. And she is so kind-hearted, sounspoiled. She has lost so much; has so much to win."

  "Listen to the rain!" cried Jeanne. "Who would believe it could come downso hard?"

  "Three days' rain. That's what the old timers say it will be. We have solittle 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 andlistening to the steady patter-patter on the roof, "living in a placelike this affects me strangely."

  She stretched herself full length in the great cedar chair. "I feel as ifI had always lived here, never been out of the woods; as if I were verypoor, 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 mygarments 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 oftrail that would weary city-dwellers, but can only bring fresh joy to theone 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 minkthere, and by this pond muskrat skins.

  "And out over the lake's four foot ice, far across the frozen inland seato Goose Island. There a fish shanty, a hole in the ice, twenty fathomsof line and a rich catch of lake trout and sturgeon. Why not always atnight the crackling fire, the bacon and corn bread eaten with a relishbecause one is truly hungry?

  "Why not? No worry about room rent, a run in a silk stocking or a frayedSunday dress. Why not always boots of cowhide and coats of canvas that donot 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 canfollow 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 forthat which we see and touch; your eye catches the glorious red, theorange, 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 bemore gorgeous?

  "Ah! But that you cannot touch.

  "Did you never note?" Jeanne's tone grew serious. "Did you never come torealize how much we live for the sense of touch? A scarf of silken goldis held out before you. You say, 'Let me see it.' But you hold out ahand. Why? You wish to touch it. You have missed a friend for a longtime. She returns. Your hands, your lips, meet. Why? Because you are nothappy until you have touched the one you love.

  "No, no, Miss Florence! This is very wonderful, very peaceful. It is sovery grand. But after all, it is only for now.

  "To-morrow, next day, sometime very soon you are going to hear the callof the city, to feel its pull at your heart. All the bright lights, thecolors, the shouts, the throngs will call to you. And you will go. Forthere, 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 thefloor in her fantastic dance. She danced herself quite out of the cabinand out into the rain, leaving Florence to meditate upon her strangewords, to conclude that Jeanne was more than half right, then to springsuddenly to her feet, crying:

  "Come back here, Petite Jeanne! Come back right now. You will die ofpneumonia."

  "Ever hear of a sprite dying of pneumonia?" Jeanne's eyes were as full oflaughter 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 hadtaken human form, I'd have to keep you human until that play had itsrun."

  "Oh! the blessed play!" said the French girl contritely, at the same timesnatching at her drenched garments. "How one does hate being in trainingfor anything."

  Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white, woolly blanket, she sat toastingbefore a fire. At this moment everything, past and future, was forgottenin the glorious now.

  CHAPTER XIX THE STOLEN TRUNK

  The three days' rain became a reality. A steady downpour, that set theforest 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 wasstill a pile of unread romances in the corner cupboard. The shed at theback of the cabin was piled high with dry wood. The fire burned everbrightly. What more could she wish?

  When she tired of reading she called to Tico, who lay sleeping by thefire hours on end, and together they went through some difficult step ofthe gypsy dance.

  To Florence, save for one condition, this prolonged downpour would haveseemed nothing short of a catastrophe. She was shut away from her belovedout-of-doors, but this only gave her more time to spend with thatfascinating person, the lady cop.

  The lady cop had become all but a pal to Florence and Tillie. Everyevening, after the day's work was done and darkness had blanketed thewater, Tillie came stealing over to the mystery cabin.

  And she never lacked a welcome. She gave the lady cop many a needed bitof information. With her aid, the lady cop had so far progressed in herinvestigation that she whispered to them on the second day of the rainthat soon she would be ready to wire for reenforcements. When thesearrived 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 oftenenough."

  The hour of the day that Florence and Tillie loved best was the one whichpreceded 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, shespun weird tales of her adventures as a lady detective.

  An only child of a police captain, at the age of eighteen she had seenher father brought home dead, shot in the back while assisting in a raidon a notorious gambling house. Over her father's dead body she had vowedthat she would take his place.

  When the time came, when she was of age, her mother, having no boys togive to the great service of protecting humanity, had smilingly,tearfu
lly, given that which she had, a girl. And to the city she hadalready proved herself a priceless gift.

  Working her way secretly into places where no man could ever haveentered, she had brought to light places of vice and crime which for longyears had remained hidden in the dark.

  Time and again she had succeeded in attaching herself to some wild youngset, and in so doing had not alone shown them their folly, but had alsobrought 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 realizethat there are those watching who would gladly kill you, did they butknow who you were.

  "Twice I was discovered and locked up. One of these times I let myselfout of the window to the street two floors below on a rope made of my ownskirt. The other time a squad wagon came in time to release me.

  "Listen to this!" Her eyes burned brightly. "Never believe the storiesyou read in cheap magazines. These stories tell you that crooks arereally good sports, generous, chivalrous and all that. They are not--notone in a thousand. They are hard as flint; cruel, heartless, ready forany savage deed that will give them liberty and the wild life theycrave."

  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 outfor a row alone in the dark," she said. "Stay here and keep the fireburning. It's not late. I'll be back in an hour."

  She left the cabin. Tillie and Florence sat by the fire.