TWO BLACK HORSES AND A COFFIN
For a full half hour the little French girl reposed upon that luxurious
couch. Now and again her slender fingers touched the folds of her filmy
gown. Often her eyes wandered from pictures to tapestries, then to little
touches everywhere that told of lavish expenditure.
As a kitten lying on the doorstep basks in the sunshine, she basked in
the warmth of elegance that was all about her.
“I am Lorena LeMar,” she was telling herself. “I am no longer a very
careful little French girl. I am care-free, extravagant. I must tip the
porter and the bell boy. I must ride in a taxi. I must—
“Oh!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet. “I came near to forgetting.
We must go to the Tavern. I must see Jensie.”
“To-night?”
“At once.”
Jeanne was out of her finery and into street clothes in a jiffy.
“Now down the elevator and into a taxi.” They were away like a streak.
“You see,” she explained, “there is so very much I do not know about
those blessed mountains. Jensie must tell me. She must go with me
to-morrow. Ah! That most terrible to-morrow!” she sighed.
Florence scarcely heard her. She was thinking of many things, of the
long-eared Chinaman, of Erik Nord’s story, of the three-bladed knife and
last but not least of Jensie and her “haunts.”
“Jeanne,” she said quite suddenly, “you didn’t believe that, did you?”
“Believe what?” Jeanne’s tone showed her astonishment.
“Oh,” Florence laughed, “I forgot you were not reading my mind. You don’t
believe that a ghost was playing the reed organ in the Tavern that night,
do you?”
“What should one believe? You saw no one?”
“No one.”
“And the doors were locked?”
“Of course.”
“The windows, too?”
“Yes, I—I’m sure of it.”
“Well then, what shall we say?”
Florence gave up. Jeanne was at heart a gypsy. And for gypsies all manner
of curious creatures are real, ghosts and devils, goblins and witches,
all quite real, so what _could_ she say?
It was a dark and gloomy night. Black clouds hurried over the black
waters of Lake Michigan. The Tavern seemed dark, mysterious, uninviting.
Yet, as ever, there was the pale light, the low fire of coals, the
slender girl scrubbing on hands and knees.
“Jensie,” said Jeanne. Her voice was low and friendly when at last they
sat before the fire, which had been made to glow a little. “Jensie, when
the big show is over, shall you go back to your mountain home?”
“It is beautiful.” Jensie spoke slowly, and with seeming reluctance.
“Y-e-s, I shall probably go back.”
“But you do not wish it?” Jeanne was surprised.
“I have been through eighth grade down there. It is as far as I can go. I
walked four miles every morning and night for that. I—I would like to
study—study more.”
“Where?” Jeanne’s voice was low.
“There is a place—” The mountain girl’s voice took on a new note of
enthusiasm. “Such a beautiful place! A school. Lena, my chum, is there
now. Her father has a coal mine.
“And this place—” She stared at the fire. “There are trees, great
spreading elm trees, very old. And the brown stone building at the top of
the hill is old, all grown over with ivy. Some of the teachers are old
too. Their hair is like silver. But they are kind, oh so very kind. And
they teach you so much. I have visited there. I know.” Her voice fell.
“Is it far?” Jeanne asked.
“Only an hour’s ride from here.”
“We shall go there some time, you and I.
“But Jensie—” The little French girl was all business now. “To-morrow I
must go out to the lot.”
“The lot?”
“Where they make moving pictures. Will you go with me?”
“I’d love to.”
“Will you help me? Will you tell me if the trees are wrong, if the porch
on the cabin is right, if the old mountaineer says his lines right?”
“I—I’ll do all I can.”
“Jensie,” Jeanne threw her arms about her. “You are a dear! We will make
a picture, oh, such a marvelous picture of the land where your great
Lincoln was born. And I—I shall be famous as—as Lorena LeMar. And you,
ah, well, I shall not tell you now, but if we succeed you shall have
something so very wonderful!”
Releasing her little mountain friend, she went flying away down the dark
room in a wild gypsy dance.
Ten seconds later, she was back on tiptoe, her face white with terror.
“The hearse!” she whispered hoarsely. “There are now two black horses and
a coffin. It moves! Oh, it moves!”
It was a full five minutes before even the stout-hearted Florence found
courage to drive her reluctant feet down the long room. When she did, and
had taken one look out of the window, she returned in haste.
“It’s gone,” she murmured hoarsely, “the hearse is gone!”
“I told you!” Jeanne repeated. “Two black horses and a coffin.”
“Haunts!” Jensie’s tone was solemn. “The hearse will be back there in the
morning.”
“Will it?” Florence asked herself.
Gliding silently out of the room, they locked the door, then hurried away
into the darkness with not a single backward look.