THE LADY OF THE ISLAND
They made a trail in the water, the two girls, one who swam and one who
drifted after. The trail was short. It appeared to begin at nothing and
end nowhere. The moon painted it with a touch of silver.
Florence swam steadily. She thought she knew her powers—had measured the
distance well. She swam with the determination of one who prizes life as
a precious gift, not lightly to be held, or carelessly put aside.
Such a girl will go far. But did she fully know her powers? True, she had
gone a great distance in other waters. But this was night in the north.
The water was chilling. A sudden cramp, a brief struggle, and their path
of silver would vanish. Only the drifting boat would speak of the night’s
tragedy.
Florence did not think of this. Possible tragedies which can in no way be
averted are not worthy of consideration. She thought instead of the
monstrous injustice that had been done them.
“Why did they do it?” she asked. “How could they? What if they _are_
rich, we poor? They have no right to override us. What if their boat _is_
a thing of beauty and power, our own an old rowboat? The water does not
belong to them.
“And they laughed!” she said aloud.
Jeanne heard and answered, “Yes. They laughed. I wonder why.”
“There are three boats on the bay like that one,” Florence said. “I have
seen that many. Perhaps there are more. Which one could it have been?”
The little French girl did not reply.
Then, because she needed her strength for swimming, Florence lapsed into
silence.
To an onlooker the outcome of this adventure might have seemed
questionable. The water was cold, the distance considerable. To Florence,
endowed as she was with splendid strength and great faith, not alone in
her own powers but in the Creator’s goodness as well, there was never a
question.
Such superb endurance as she displayed! Hand over hand, arm over arm, she
measured the yards without one faltering movement. Little wonder, this.
Florence regarded her physical powers as a great gift. She thought of
herself as the Roman maidens did of old. She was a child of the gods.
So she swam on while the moon looked down upon her and appeared to smile.
And the graceful, swaying cedars beckoned. At last, with a sigh of pure
joy, she felt her hand grasp the post of a tiny plank dock, and knew that
her testing was over.
With one last, splendid effort she thrust her silent companion to a place
on the plank surface. Then she followed.
Petite Jeanne was completely benumbed with cold. Her lips were blue. When
she attempted to stand, her knees would not support her.
Gathering her in her arms as she might a child, Florence hurried toward
the cottage not twenty yards away.
The place was completely dark. For all that, she did not hesitate to
knock loudly at the door.
There came no answer. She knocked again, and yet again. Still no answer.
She had just placed her shoulder squarely against the door, preparatory
to forcing it, when a voice demanded:
“Who’s there?”
“I,” Florence replied. “We’ve had an accident. Boat turned over. We are
soaked, chilled, in danger. Let us in!”
There came a sound of movement from within. Then a heavy bar dropped back
with a slam.
As the door swung open, Florence gasped. She had seen the occupant of
this cottage at a distance. Since she always dressed in garments of
somber hue and lived here alone, Florence had expected to find her old.
Instead, there stood before her, holding a lamp high like a torch, a most
dazzling creature. A young woman, certainly not past twenty-five, with
tossing golden hair and penetrating blue eyes, she stood there garbed in
a dressing gown of flaming red.
“Oh!” murmured Florence, for the time forgetting her urgent mission.
“Bring her right in,” said a strong voice in a steady, even tone. “There
are some coals in the fireplace. I’ll soon have it roaring.”
The mysterious young lady was as good as her word. Five minutes had not
elapsed ere a fire was laughing up the chimney. Stripped of their
chilling garments and wrapped in blankets of the softest wool, the two
girls sat before the fire while their strange hostess spent her time
alternately chafing Petite Jeanne’s feet and hands and tending tea that
was brewing.
Florence found time to examine the interior of the cottage. The bar had
been replaced at the door. As her eyes swept the walls, she was startled
to discover that this cabin was entirely devoid of windows. More
startling still was her next discovery. At the head of a low bed, within
easy reach of one who slept there, were two thin, blue steel automatic
pistols.
The things fascinated her. She removed her gaze from them with
difficulty.
At that moment it struck her suddenly that this cabin bore all the marks
of a trap. Had they been dumped out before it by someone with a purpose?
Were they prisoners here?
But why? To this question she could form but a single answer. And that
one seemed absurd.
“Green Eyes!” she whispered.
There was a young lady, an actress, the star of Petite Jeanne’s cast, who
appeared to be intensely jealous of Jeanne. They had called her Green
Eyes because, in certain lights, her eyes seemed as green as the sea.
Once Florence had fancied that she had seen her in a speed boat on these
waters. She could not be sure. Would she stoop to such base plotting? It
did not seem possible.
“Besides,” the girl reassured herself, “this cabin is old. It was built
for some other purpose. That it should have its present occupant is more
or less in the nature of an accident. This woman has a purpose in hiding
here. A mystery!” A thrill of pleasant anticipation shot through her,
dispelling fear as the morning sun dispels the fog.
“Mystery!” she whispered to herself. “That magic word, mystery!”
“The tea is served,” said a pleasant voice. “Do you take one lump, two,
or none at all?”
“N-none at all,” Florence replied, bringing herself back to the present
moment with a start.