SONG OF THE PHANTOM
It is not difficult to imagine Jeanne’s wild joy when, after an hour of
disappointment because she had no boat for rowing to Duncan’s Bay, she
saw the gay gypsy boat slip from out the Narrows and head straight for
the spot where she stood upon the sloping deck.
“Oh!” she cried to Greta. “They are coming! Florence has found them. She
knows how I love gypsies who are good. She will bring them.” She sprang
into a dance so wild that Greta thought she would spin quite off the deck
and go flying through the air to meet the gay white boat.
“It can’t be Bihari!” she exclaimed at last, throwing herself down upon
the deck. “It just cannot be!”
It was Bihari for all that. The schooner was still an arm’s length from
the side of the wreck when with one wild leap Jeanne was in Madame
Bihari’s strong arms.
“Jeanne! My Petite Jeanne!” the good woman cried. Tears stood in her
eyes. “Jeanne, you are with us once more!”
There followed hours of great joy, of music and feasting; telling of
stories, too.
“In France,” Bihari said to Jeanne, “all is beautiful. Every day grows
longer without you. We said, ‘Well, we will return to America.’ And here
we are.
“We came to Chicago. You were not there. We came to the shore of Lake
Superior. You were not there. They said, ‘She is on an island, Isle
Royale.’ We said, ‘Take our vans. We must have a boat.’ See! We have a
boat. Is it not a jolly one? And we have you!
“And see!” he exclaimed, pointing at a brown mass of fur against the
cabin. “See, we have found you a bear. He is almost as wise as your other
one. And Mama here has taught him some of your dances.
“Come!” he exclaimed, poking the sleeping bear with his foot. “Come!
Dance for us!”
Unrolling himself, the bear stood up. At first, still groggy with sleep,
he looked more like an empty sack trying to play it was a man. When
Bihari seized his violin and began to play, it was as if the bear were
run by a motor and the current was suddenly turned on. He began hopping
about in a most grotesque manner. Soon he and Jeanne were doing a wild,
weird dance.
Florence, accustomed to all this from the past, sat looking on in
silence. Greta too was silent. Yet how strange it all seemed to her!
“Bravo!” Bihari shouted when the dance was over. “We will visit the
island. We will go to every place where there are people. They shall have
music and dancing, such entertainment as they have never known before.”
The days that followed were one round of joy for the little French girl.
The old wreck became once more a pleasure ship. Flags and bunting were
hung on every brace and spar. The deserted cabins overflowed with life
and echoed sounds of joy from dawn to dark.
Great flat boxes of clay were brought from the mainland. On these
campfires were kindled. Their red and yellow gleam might be seen wavering
upon the water far and near. Strange dishes were prepared in kettles hung
over these fires. They feasted, danced, sang and told stories by the
hour. Both Jeanne and Florence lived the life of the open as they had
lived it in France with Bihari and his band.
As for the dark-eyed Greta, it was all so wild and strange she could only
sit shyly smiling in a corner, both charmed and bewildered by the ways of
these people of the open road.
At times she stole away to the prow. One night, when songs were loudest,
she took her violin from beneath her arm and played to the rushing waves.
Then again she would sit staring away toward the land where no light
shone, dreaming strange dreams.
“Gold,” she would murmur, “a barrel of gold. Florence said there might be
a barrel of gold buried on the camping ground.
“But that,” she would exclaim, “that is absurd!” In spite of all her
denials, the conviction clung to her that somehow, somewhere a barrel of
gold would play an important part in her life.
“Wonder how much that would be?” she murmured. “Enough for—for
everything?” For a long time she had wished to study violin under a very
great master, and had not been able.
“Money, money, money,” she whispered now. “Some have much more than they
need, and some none at all. How strange life is!”
Finding in this no source of joy, she gazed away toward the shores of
Isle Royale, to dream that she was once more listening to the magic music
of the phantom violin.
In this mood she took up her own violin and was soon lost to all else in
an attempt to reproduce the notes of the haunting melody that had come to
her that night.
To her unspeakable joy, she found she could catch here and there a few
scattered notes. With time it came to her more and more.
So engrossed was she in this joyous adventure into the unknown, she did
not know that the gypsy songs had ceased, that soft padded footsteps
approached, that a little circle of eager listeners had gathered about
her.
“Ah!” someone sighed as her last note died away.
Then, in consternation she became conscious of their presence.
“Magnificent!” Bihari exclaimed. “We have artists of the violin in
France. Few play more wonderfully. What piece is that?”
“It—” Greta stared. “Why, that is the song of the phantom.”
“Song of the phantom!”
Greta was obliged to tell her story.
“That is no phantom!” Bihari declared stoutly. “Some great artist is
hidden away in those hills. Why? I wonder. I should like very much to
hunt him out and sit at his feet. But tomorrow—no, the day after—we
become water gypsies again. We must play and dance. Coins must jingle,
for we must live.
“And you—” He turned eagerly to Jeanne. “You will go with us, round the
island?”
“Yes! Yes! She will go, Jeanne will go!” The gypsy band, all old friends,
swarmed about her. What more could she say but “Yes, I will go.”
“And you,” she cried, gathering Greta and Florence in her arms, “you will
go also?”
“It would be a grand adventure,” Florence replied, “but Greta is here, in
part to rest and grow strong. I think we must stay and keep the ship
until your return.”
So in the end this was agreed upon. “And we,” Greta whispered to
Florence, “we shall go over to Duncan’s Bay. We shall dig for a barrel of
gold and hunt down the home of that phantom who plays so divinely.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed. “We will do just that.” But in her own mind’s eye
was the face of a very ugly man. And that man was trying to cut off her
head with an ashen oar.
Next day was Sunday. There was no wild and hilarious music on this day,
for Bihari and his band were deeply religious. All day they sat about the
ship, some in groups talking quietly, and some alone meditating on the
ways of a great Creator who rules the waves and watches over His children
in all their wanderings.
As darkness fell a bright fire was lighted. Bihari took down his violin
and all joined in those sacred melodies that belong to all time, all
lands and all people.
Next day, with many a shout of farewell, the gypsy bark sailed away. And
in the prow, standing beside Bihari, was the little French girl.
“I’ll be back in ten days,” she shouted back as the wreck began to grow
small in the distance.
“Will she?” Florence whispered. “I wonder.”