A NYMPH OF THE NIGHT
Florence had never seen the face lit up there in the night; yet it struck
fear to her heart. What must we say, then, of Petite Jeanne? For this was
the face of one who, more than any others, inspired her with terror. He
it had been who called after her at the door of the opera, he who had
looked out from the bushes as she slept in the sun. At sight of him now,
she all but fell among the rocks from sheer panic.
As for Florence, she was startled into action. They were, she suddenly
realized, many blocks from any human habitation, on a deserted strip of
man-made shore land lighted only by stars and the moonlight. And at this
moment the moon, having failed them, had left the place black as a tomb.
With a low, whispered "Come!" and guided more by instinct than sight, she
led Jeanne off the tumbled pile of rocks and out to the path where grass
grew rank and they were in danger at any moment of tripping over pieces
of debris.
"Who--who was that?"
Florence fancied she heard the little French girl's heart beating wildly
as she asked the question.
"Who can tell? There may be many. See! Yonder, far ahead, is a light."
The light they saw was the gleam of a camp fire. In this desolate spot it
seemed strangely out of place; yet there is that about fire and light
that suggests security and peace. How often in her homeland had Petite
Jeanne felt the cozy warmth of an open fireplace and, secure from all
danger, had fallen asleep in the corner of a gypsy's tent. How often as a
child had Florence, in a cane-seated rocker, sat beside the humble
kitchen stove to hear the crackle of the fire, to watch its glow through
its open grate and to dream dreams of security and peace.
What wonder, then, that these two bewildered and frightened ones, at
sight of a glowing fire, should leap forward with cries of joy on their
lips?
Nor were they destined to disappointment. The man who had built that fire
loved its cheerful gleam just as they did, and for the very same reason:
it whispered to him of security and peace.
He was old, was this man. His face had been deeply tanned and wrinkled by
many a sun. His hair was snow white. A wandering philosopher and
preacher, he had taken up his abode in a natural cavern between great
rocks. He welcomed these frightened girls to a place of security by his
fireside.
"Probably nothing to frighten you," he reassured them. "There are many of
us sleeping out here among the rocks. In these times when work is scarce,
when millions know not when or where they are to eat and when, like our
Master, many of us have nowhere to lay our heads, it will not seem
strange that so many, some by the aid of a pile of broken bricks and some
with cast-off boards and sheet-iron, should fashion here homes of a sort
which they may for a brief time call their own.
"Of course," he added quickly, "all too soon this will be a thing of the
past. Buildings will rise here and there. They are rising even now. Three
have been erected on these very shores. Scores of buildings will dot them
soon. Palm trees will wave, orange trees blossom, grass and flowers will
fringe deep lagoons where bright boats flash in the sun. All this will
rise as if by magic and our poor abodes built of cast-off things will
vanish, our camp fires gleam no more." His voice trailed off into
nothingness. For a time after that they sat there silent, staring at the
fire.
"That," said Florence, speaking with some effort, "will be too bad."
"No, I suppose not." The old man's voice was mellow. "It's going to be a
Fair, a great Exposition. Millions of eager feet will tramp over the very
spot where we now sit in such silence and peace. They are to call it the
'Century of Progress.' Progress," he added dreamily. "Progress. That is
life. There must be progress. Time marches on. What matter that some are
left behind?
"But, see!" His tone changed. "Great clouds are banking up in the west.
There will be a storm! My poor shelter does well enough for me. For you
it will not suffice.
"You will do well to go forward," he advised, as they sprang to their
feet. "It is a long way back over the path you have come. If you go
forward it is only a matter of a few blocks to a bridge over the railroad
tracks. And across that bridge you will find shelter and a street car to
carry you home."
As he stood there by the fire, watching their departure, he seemed a
heroic figure, this wandering philosopher.
"Surely," Florence whispered to herself, "it is not always the rich, the
famous, the powerful who most truly serve mankind."
Once more she was reminded of the little old lady and her one treasure,
the priceless cameo fashioned by skilled and loving fingers so many years
ago.
"And I promised to return it to her!" This thought was one almost of
despair.
"And yet," she murmured, "I made that promise out of pure love. Who knows
how Providence may assist me?"
There appeared to be, however, little time for thoughts other than those
of escape from the storm. Their hurried march south began at once.
* * * * * * * *
As for the man who had so inspired them with terror, the one of the evil
eye, he had not followed them. There is some reason to doubt that he so
much as saw them. Had his attention been directed toward them, it seems
probable that he would have passed them by as unknown to him and quite
unimportant for he, as we must recall, knew Jeanne only as the boy usher,
Pierre.
Truth was, this young man, who would have laughed to scorn any suggestion
that his home might be found in this tumbled place, was engaged in a
special sort of business that apparently required haste; for, after
passing down the winding path at a kind of trotting walk, he hastened
past a dark bulk that was a building of some size, turned to the right,
crossed a temporary wooden bridge to come out at last upon the island
which was also a part of the city's "made land." It was upon this island
that Florence, a few evenings before, had discovered the mysterious girl
and the more mystifying house that was so much like a ship, and yet so
resembled a tiny church.
Even while the two girls talked to the ragged philosopher, this evil-eyed
one with the dark and forbidding face had crossed the island and, coming
out at the south end, had mounted the rock-formed breakwater where some
frame-like affair stood.
At the far end of the frame was a dark circle some twenty feet in
diameter. This circle was made of steel. It supported a circular dip-net
for catching fish. There was a windlass at the end of the pole supporting
the net. By unwinding the windlass one might allow the net to sink into
the water. If luck were with him, he might hope to draw it up after a
time with a fair catch of perch or herring.
All day long this windlass might be heard screaming and creaking as it
lifted and lowered the net. For the present it was silent. The fisherman
slept. Not so this dark prowler.
The man with the evil eye was not alone upon the rocks that night, though
beyond a shadow of a doubt he believed himself to be. Off to the left, at
a distance of forty yards, a dark figure, bent over in a position of
repose and as still as the rocks themselves, cast a dark shadow over the
near-by waters. Did this figure's head turn? Who could say? Certainly the
man could not, for he believed himself alone. However, he apparently did
not expect to remain unmolested long, for his eyes were constantly
turning toward the barren stretch of sand he had crossed.
His movements betrayed a nervous fear, yet he worked rapidly. Having
searched about for some time, he located a battered bucket. This he
filled with water. Bringing it up, he threw the entire contents of the
bucket upon the windlass. Not satisfied with this, he returned for a
second bucket of water and repeated the operation.
Satisfied at last, he drew a package wrapped in black oilcloth from
beneath his coat and tossed it to the center of the dangling net. Then
with great care lest the rusty windlass, for all the careful soaking he
had given it, should let out a screeching complaint, he quietly lowered
the net into the lake. The water had done its work; the windlass gave
forth no sound.
After this he turned and walked slowly away.
He was some fifty feet from the windlass, busy apparently in
contemplating the dark clouds that threatened to obscure the moon, when
almost at the same instant two causes for disturbance entered his not
uneventful life. From the direction of the lake came a faint splash. At
the brow of the little ridge over which he had passed to reach this spot,
two men had appeared.
That the men were not unexpected was at once evident. He made no attempt
to conceal himself. That the splash puzzled him went without question. He
covered half the distance to the breakwater, then paused.
"Poof! Nothing! Wharf rat, perhaps," he muttered, then returned to his
contemplation of the clouds. Yet, had he taken notice before of that
silent figure on the rocks, he might now have discovered that it had
vanished.
The two men advanced rapidly across the stretch of sand. As they came
close there was about their movements an air of caution. At last one
spoke:
"Don't try anything, Al. We got you."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. And the goods are on you!"
"Yeah?"
The dark, evil-eyed one who was apparently known as Al, stood his ground.
The moon lost itself behind a cloud. The place went dark. Yet when the
moon reappeared, bringing out the gleam of an officer's star upon the
breast of one of the newcomers, he stood there motionless.
"Will you hand it over, or shall we take you in?" It was the man with the
star who spoke.
"You've got nothing on me!" Al threw open his coat. "Look me over."
"We will. And then--"
"Yeah? And then?"
"We'll see."
At that instant, all unseen, a dripping figure emerged from the water
close to the submerged fishing net. It was the figure that, but a short
half hour before had rested motionless upon the rocks; a slender girl
whose figure was for a second fully outlined by a distant flash of
lightning. She carried some dark object beneath her right arm.