A TOUCH IN THE DARK
During all these busy days Petite Jeanne did not entirely lose track of
her friend Merry of the smiling Irish eyes. Being endowed with a
particularly friendly nature, she was more than glad to find friends
outside the little circle in which she moved. Besides, she was deeply
grateful to the little girl who had led her to the place where she had,
in so miraculous a manner, purchased the priceless Fire God for only
three silver coins.
“It was the beginning of all my good fortune,” she said to Merry on one
occasion. “And,” she added quickly, “all my very hard work as well.”
So it happened more than once that she took the elevated train to the
office where the auction sale of unclaimed, and damaged express packages
was held every Friday. There she sat in the front row beside Merry and
enjoyed two hours of relaxation. The endless variety of goods on sale,
from a baby buggy without wheels to a black and white puppy with an
enticing bark, intrigued her more and more; particularly the “union,”
Merry’s little circle of choice friends.
To a casual observer these men would have seemed a rough lot. Soon
enough Jeanne, with her power of looking into men’s hearts, learned that
these men who struggled daily for their bread had been endowed by nature
with hearts of gold.
Their interest in Merry was of a fatherly and sportsman-like sort.
Knowing her brother and his handicaps they were glad to help her.
Unfortunately, at this time there was little they could do for her. Each
Friday she brought a smaller purse and carried fewer articles away. The
little basement shop, where Tad toiled incessantly, was feeling the
pinch of hard times. Few were the visitors that came down the cellar
stairs these days, and fewer still were the purchases they carried away.
Only when the blue eyes of the girl spied some article for which she had
an immediate sale did she venture a bid.
More than once when some particular member of the “union” had made a
fortunate purchase and met with an immediate sale, he offered Merry a
loan. Always the answer was the same: a loyal Irish smile and, “Thanks.
You’ll be needing it next time.”
Little wonder that Petite Jeanne, sitting in the glowing light of such
glorious friendships, absorbed warmth that carried her undaunted through
rehearsals amid the cold and forbidding circle within the old Blackmoore
walls.
It was on one of these visits to the auction house that the little
French girl received an invitation to an unusual party.
Weston, the ruddy-faced German who kept a shop near Maxwell street,
together with Kay King and a stout man known by the name of John, had
bid in a large number of traveling bags and trunks. They were an unusual
lot, these bags and boxes. Many of the trunks were plastered from end to
end with foreign labels. Three of the bags, all exactly alike, were of
the sort carried only by men of some importance who reside in the
British Isles.
“How I’d love to see what’s in them!” Jeanne exclaimed.
“Do you want to know?” Weston demanded. “Then I’ll tell you. Junk!
That’s all. I buy only junk. Inside these are some suits. Moths eat
holes in them. Silk dresses, maybe; all mildewed.”
“Must be fun to open them, though. You never can tell what you might
find.”
“Ja, you can never tell,” Weston agreed.
“Do you want to see what’s in them?” Kay King, who was young and good
looking, leaned forward. “Come down to Maxwell Street on Sunday. We’ll
save them until then, won’t we?” He appealed to his companions.
“Ja, sure!”
“Sure we will!”
Petite Jeanne turned to Merry. “Will you go?” she asked, suddenly grown
timid.
“Yes, I’d like to,” Merry assented quickly. “I’ve never seen their
shops. I’d love to.”
“All right,” Jeanne said with a smile. “We’ll come. And perhaps we’ll
bring some friends.”
“Ja, bring friends. As many as you like. Mebby we could perhaps sell
them some suitcases?”
Kay King gave Jeanne his card. And there, for the time, the matter
rested. But Jeanne did not allow it to escape her memory. It was to be,
she told herself, one of the strangest and most interesting opening-up
parties it had been her privilege to attend.
That night Petite Jeanne once more danced alone beneath the yellow glow
of Jimmie’s spotlight. The affair of two nights before had frightened
her more than she cared to admit. But this little French girl possessed
an indomitable spirit. She knew what she wanted; knew quite as well why
she wanted it, and was resolved that, come what might, she should have
it.
On this particular night she would gladly have taken her strong and
fearless companion, Florence, with her to the theatre. But Florence had
come upon a bit of good fortune; she had been employed to conduct
classes in a settlement house gymnasium two hours each evening.
“That,” she had exclaimed joyously, “means bread and butter!”
So Petite Jeanne had come alone. And why not? Was not Jimmie over there
in the balcony? And was not her friend, the night watchman, somewhere in
the building?
“What of the gypsy who would steal your god if he might?” Florence had
asked.
“Well, what of him?” Jeanne had demanded. “We haven’t seen him prowling
about, have we? Given up, and gone south. That’s what I think. In New
Orleans by this time.”
Long ere this, as you will recall, Jeanne had resolved what she should
do on the opening night. When the curtain rose for her first big scene,
when she received the cue to begin her dance, she would make it _her_
dance indeed. At that moment, before the throng of first-nighters, she
would defy the tyrannical director. She would forget the steps they had
taught her. Before the gypsy campfire she would become a gypsy once
again and dance, as never before, that native dance to the Fire God.
Bihari, the gypsy, had taught her that dance, and there was nothing like
it in all the world, she felt sure.
It was a daring resolve and might, she knew, result in disaster. Yet the
very daring of it inspired her. And why not? Was she not after all, in
spirit at least, a gypsy, a free soul unhampered by the shams and fake
pretenses, the senseless conventions of a city’s life?
With this in mind, she danced in the dark theatre with utter abandon.
Forgetting all but the little Fire God whose tiny eyes glowed at the rim
of the yellow circle of light, she danced as she had many times by the
roadsides of France.
She had reached the very zenith of the wild whirl. It seemed to Jimmie
that she would surely leave the floor and soar aloft, when suddenly he
became conscious that all was not well. He read it in her face. She did
not stop dancing. She did not so much as speak; yet her lips formed
words and Jimmie read them:
“Wings, fluttering of wings!”
“A plague on the wings!” exclaimed Jimmie, as his muscles stiffened in
readiness for an emergency.
Wings! Did he hear them? He could not be sure. He would see what he
could see!
He touched a button and a light flashed brightly from a white globe
aloft.
His keen eyes searched the place in vain. Yet sixty seconds had not
elapsed before there came the sound of a slight impact, followed by a
terrific crash. The light above blinked out.
In his excitement, Jimmie threw off the spotlight and the theatre
beneath him became a well of darkness.
And what of Jeanne? When the crash came her dance ended. When the
spotlight blinked out she sprang back in terror. At that instant
something touched her ankle.
With a little cry of fright, she bounded forward. Her foot came in
contact with some solid object and sent it spinning.
“The Fire God!” she thought in consternation. “I have kicked him across
the stage.”
Then the house lights flashed on, and all was light as day.
Flashing a quick look about the stage, the girl found everything as it
had been, except that the Fire God was standing on his head in a corner,
and half way down the center aisle was a pile of shattered glass. This
glass had, a moment before, been the white globe aloft.
“Jimmie!” she called. “It’s all right. The globe fell, that’s all.”
“Must have been loose,” Jimmie grumbled. “Good thing it fell now. Might
have killed somebody.”
But Jeanne was sure it had not been loose. She had not forgotten that
flutter of wings.
“Some one,” she told herself, “is trying to frighten me. But I shan’t be
frightened.”
At that she walked to the corner of the stage, took up her Fire God,
slipped on her coat and prepared to go home.
“Jimmie,” she called, loud enough for anyone who might be hiding in the
place to hear, “that’s all for to-night. But come again day after
to-morrow. What do you say?”
“O. K.,” Jimmie shouted back.
Jeanne was to regret this rashness, if rashness it might be called.