A VISION FOR ANOTHER
That same afternoon Florence met Sandy at the door of his glass box.
“Are—are you leaving?” she asked in sudden consternation. “I didn’t get
my story in.”
“Oh, that’s O. K.” Sandy, who was small, young, red-haired and freckled,
threw back his head and laughed. “I did it for you. It’s gone to press.
Remember that psychoanalyst who wears some sort of a towel wrapped round
his head and claims he is a Prince of India?”
“Oh, yes. He was funny—truly funny. And he wanted to hold my hand.”
Florence showed her two large dimples in a smile.
“Yes. Well, I did him for you. So! Come on downstairs for a cup of
coffee.”
“Sure.” Florence grinned. She was not on a diet and she was ready for
just one more cup of coffee any time. Besides, she wanted to tell Sandy
about her latest finds, Madame Zaran, June Travis, and the crystal ball.
“It’s the strangest thing,” she was saying fifteen minutes later as,
seated in a remote corner of the cafeteria maintained for employees only,
she looked at Sandy over a steaming cup of coffee. “I gazed into the
crystal and, almost at once, I began seeing things!”
“What did you see?” There was a questioning look on Sandy’s freckled
face.
“Trees, evergreen trees.” Florence’s eyes became dreamy. “Trees and dark
waters, rocks—the wildest sort of place in the great out-of-doors.”
“And then?”
“And then it all changed. I saw the same trees, rocks and waters covered
with ice and snow.”
“That surely _is_ strange!” The look on Sandy’s face changed. “You must
have been seeing things for me.”
“For you?” The girl’s eyes opened wide.
“Absolutely.” Sandy grinned. “You see, they’re trapping moose on Isle
Royale, and—”
“Isle Royale!” Florence exclaimed. “I’ve been there, spent a whole summer
there. It’s marvelous!”
“Tell me about it.” Sandy leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh—” Florence closed her eyes for a space of seconds. “It—why it’s wild
and beautiful. It’s a big island, forty miles long. It’s all rocks and
forest primeval. No timber has ever been cut there. And there are narrow
bays running back two miles where, early in summer, marvelous big lake
trout lurk. You put a spoon hook on your line and go trolling. You just
row and row. You gaze at the glorious green of birch and balsam, spruce
and fir; you watch the fleecy clouds, you feel the lift and fall of your
small boat, and think how wonderful it is just to live, when Zing!
something sets your reel spinning. Is it a rock? You grab your pole and
begin reeling in. No! It moves, it wobbles. It is a fish.
“Ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty you reel in. There he is! What a
beauty—a ten pounder. You play him, let out line, reel in, let out, reel
in. Then you whisper, ‘Now!’ You reel in fast, you reach out and up, and
there he is thrashing about in the bottom of your boat. Oh, Sandy! You’ll
love it! Wish I could go. Next summer are you going?”
“Next week, most likely.”
“Next week! Why, it’s all frozen over. There are no boats going there
now.”
“No boats, but we’ll take a plane, land on skiis. You see,” Sandy
explained, “our nature editor has gone south. Now this moose-trapping
business has come up and our paper wants a story. The thing has been
dumped in my lap. I’ll probably have to go.”
“Oh!” The big girl’s face was a study. She loved the wide out-of-doors
and all wild, free places. Isle Royale must be glorious in winter. “Wish
I could go along! But I—I can’t.”
“Why not?” Sandy asked.
“I’ve got this girl, June Travis, on my hands. And, unless something is
done, I’m afraid it will turn out badly.”
“June Travis?” Sandy stared.
“Yes. Didn’t I tell you? But of course not. It’s the strangest, most
fantastic thing! I should have told you that first, but of course, like
everyone else, I was most interested in my own poor little experience.”
“Tell me about it.”
Florence did tell him. She told the story well, about June gazing into
the crystal ball, the moving figures in that ball, June’s fortune which
she was soon to possess, the voodoo priestess and all the rest. She told
it so well that Sandy’s second cup of coffee got cold during the telling.
“I say!” Sandy exclaimed. “You _have_ got something on your hands. Look
out, big girl! They may turn out too many for you. My opinion is that all
fortune tellers are fakes, and that the biggest of them are crooked and
dangerous, so watch your step.”
“Oh, I know my way around this little town,” Florence laughed. “And now
allow me to get you a fresh cup of coffee.”
“Sandy,” Florence said a moment later, “the little French girl, Petite
Jeanne, was with me on Isle Royale. She’d like to hear all about your
proposed trip to the island. We may be able to think up some facts that
will be a real help to you. Why don’t you come over to our studio for
dinner tomorrow night? I’m sure Miss Mabee would be delighted to have
you.”
“All right, I’ll be there. How about your gypsy girl friend preparing a
chicken for us, one she has caught behind her van, on the broad highway?”
“Her van has vanished, much to her regret,” Florence laughed. “We’ll have
the chicken all the same.”
“And about this story of the crystal ball,” Sandy asked as they prepared
to leave the cafeteria. “Shall I run that tomorrow?”
“Oh, no!” Florence exclaimed in alarm. “Not yet. I want to dig deeply
into that. I—I’m hoping I may find something truly magical there.”
“Well, don’t hope too much!” Sandy dashed away to make one more
“dead-line.”
That had been an exciting day for the little French girl. After she had
crept beneath the covers in her studio chamber at ten o’clock that night,
she could not sleep. When she closed her eyes she saw a thousand faces.
Old, wrinkled faces, pinched young faces and the half greedy, half
hopeless faces of the middle-aged. All that Maxwell Street had been as
she danced so madly for the prize that meant so little to her and so much
to another.
“Life,” she whispered to herself, “is so very queer! Why must we always
be thinking of others? Life should not be like that. We should be free to
seek happiness for ourselves alone. Happiness! Happiness!” she repeated
the word softly. “Why should not happiness be our only aim in life? To
sing like the nightingale, to dart about like a humming-bird, to dance
wild and free like the fairies. Ah, this should be life!”
Still she could not sleep. It was often so. It was as if life were too
thrilling, too joyous and charming to be spent in senseless sleep.
Slipping from her bed, she drew on heavy skating socks and slippers,
wrapped herself in a heavy woolen dressing gown; then slipping silently
out of her room, felt about in the half darkness of the studio until she
found the rounds of an iron ladder. Then she began to climb. She had not
climbed far when she came to a small trap door. This she lifted. Having
taken two more steps up, she paused to stare about her. Her gaze swept
the surface of a broad flat roof, their roof.
“Twelve o’clock, and all’s well,” she whispered with a low laugh. The
roof was silent as a tomb. She stepped out upon the roof, then allowed
the trap door to drop without a sound into its place. She was now at the
top of her own little world.
And what a world on such a night! Above her, like blue diamonds, the
stars shone. Hanging low over the distant dark waters of the lake, the
moon lay at the end of a path of gold.
Here, there, everywhere, lights shone from thousands of windows. How
different were the scenes behind those windows! There were windows of
homes, of offices, of hospitals and jails. Each hid a story of life.
So absorbed was the little French girl in all these things as she sat
there in the shadow of a chimney, she did not note that a trap door a
hundred feet away had lifted silently, allowed a dark figure to pass,
then as silently closed. Had she noted this she must surely have thought
the person some robber escaping with his booty. She would, beyond doubt,
have fled to her own trap door and vanished.
Since she did not see the intruder upon her reveries, she continued to
drink in the crisp fresh air of night and to sit musing over the
strangeness of life.
Some moments later she was startled by one long-drawn musical note, it
seemed to have come from a violin, and that not far away. Before she
could cry out or flee, there came to her startled ears, played
exquisitely on a violin, the melodious notes of _O Sole Mio_.
To her vexation and terror, at that moment the moon passed behind a cloud
and all the roof was dark. Still the music did not cease.
Awed by the strangeness of it all, captivated by that marvelous music
played in a place so strange, Jeanne sat as one entranced until the last
note had died away.
“There, my pretty ones!” said a voice with startling distinctness, “how
do you like that? Not so bad, eh?”
There was something of a reply. It was, however, too indistinct to be
understood.
“Could anything be stranger?” Jeanne asked herself. She knew that the
voice was that of a young man, or perhaps a boy. She felt that perhaps
she should proceed to vanish.
“But how can I?” she whispered, “and leave all this mystery unsolved?”
Oddly enough, the very next tune chosen by the musician was one of those
wild, rocketing gypsy dance tunes that Jeanne had ever found
irresistible.
Before she knew what she was about, she went gliding like some wild
bewitching sprite across the flat surface of the roof. She was in the
very midst of that dance, leaping high and swinging wide as only she
could do, when with a suddenness that was appalling, the music ceased.
An ominous silence followed. Out of that silence came a small voice.
“Wha—where did you come from?”
“Ple—oh, please go on!” Jeanne entreated. “You wouldn’t dash a beautiful
vase on the floor; you would not strangle a canary; you would not step
upon a rose. You must not crush a beautiful dance in pieces!”
“But, ah—”
“Please!” Jeanne was not looking at the musician.
With a squeak and a scratch or two, the music began once more. This time
the dance was played perfectly to its end.
“Now!” breathed Jeanne as she sank down upon a stone parapet. “I ask you,
where did _you_ come from—the moon, or just one of the stars?” She was
staring at a handsome dark-eyed boy in his late teens. A violin was
tucked under his arm.
“Neither,” he answered shyly. “Up from a hole in the roof.”
“But why are you playing here?” Jeanne demanded.
“I came—” there was a low chuckle. “I came here so I could play for the
pigeons who roost under the tank there. They like it, I’m sure. Did you
hear them cooing?”
“Yes. But why—” Jeanne hesitated, bewildered. “Why for the pigeons? You
play divinely!”
“Thanks.” He made a low bow. “I play well enough, I suppose. So do a
thousand others. That’s the trouble. There is not room for us all, so I
must take to the house-tops.”
“But how do you live?” Jeanne did not mean to go on, yet she could not
stop.
“I play twice a week in a—a place where people eat, and—and drink.”
“Is it a nice place?”
“Not too nice, but it is a nice five dollars a week they pay me. One may
eat and have his collars done for five a week. The janitor of this
building lets me have a cubbyhole under the roof, and so—” he laughed
again. “I am handy to the pigeons. They appreciate my music, I am sure of
it.”
“Don’t!” Jeanne sprang up and stamped a foot. “Don’t joke about art.
It—it’s not nice!”
“Oh!” the boy breathed, “I’m sorry.”
“What’s your name?” Jeanne demanded.
The boy murmured something that sounded like “Tomorrow.”
“No!” Jeanne spoke more distinctly. “I said, what’s your name?”
The boy too spoke more distinctly. Still the thing he said was to Jeanne
simply “Tomorrow.”
“I don’t know,” she exclaimed almost angrily, “whether it is today still,
or whether we have got into tomorrow. My watch is in my room. What I’d
like to know is, what do your parents call you?”
“Tomorrow,” the boy repeated, or so it sounded to Jeanne.
Then he laughed a merry laugh. “I’ll spell it for you. T-U-M, Tum. That’s
my first name. And the second is Morrow. I defy you to say it fast
without making it ‘tomorrow’!
“And that,” he sighed, “is a very good name for me! It is always tomorrow
that good things are to happen. Then they never do.”
“Tum Morrow,” said Jeanne, “tomorrow at three will you have tea with me?”
“I surely will tomorrow,” said Tum Morrow, “but where do I come?”
“Follow me with your eye until I vanish.” Jeanne rose. “Tomorrow lift
that same trap door, climb down the ladder, then look straight ahead and
down. You will probably be looking at me in a very beautiful studio.”
“Tomorrow,” said Tum Morrow, “I’ll be there.”
“And tomorrow, Tum Morrow, may be your lucky day,” Jeanne laughed as she
went dancing away.
Tomorrow came. So did Tum Morrow. Jeanne did not forget her appointment.
She saw to it that water was hot for tea. She prepared a heaping plate of
the most delicious sandwiches. Great heaps of nut meats, a bottle of
salad-dressing and half a chicken went into their making.
“Tea!” Florence exclaimed. “That will be a feast!”
“And why not?” Jeanne demanded. “One who eats on five dollars a week and
keeps his collars clean in the bargain deserves a feast!”
The moods of the great artist were not, however, governed by afternoon
appointments to tea. When Tum Morrow, having followed Jeanne’s
instructions, found himself upon the studio balcony, he did not speak,
but sat quietly down upon the top step of the stair to wait, for there in
the center of the large studio, poised on a narrow, raised stand, was
Jeanne.
Garbed in high red boots, short socks, skirts of mixed and gorgeous hues
and a meager waist, wide open at the front, she stood with a bright
tambourine held aloft, poised for a gypsy dancer.
To the right of her, working furiously, dashing a touch of color here,
another there, stepping back for a look, then leaping at her canvas
again, was the painter, Marie Mabee.
Evidently Tum Morrow had seen nothing like this before, for he sat there,
mouth wide open, staring. At that moment, so far as he was concerned,
tomorrow might at any moment become today. He would never have known the
difference.
When at last Marie Mabee thrust her brushes, handles down, in the top of
a jug and said, “There!” Tum Morrow heaved such a prodigious sigh that
the artist started, whirled about, stared for an instant, then demanded,
“Where did you come from?”
Before the startled boy could find breath for reply, she exclaimed, “Oh,
yes! I remember. Jeanne told me! Come right down! She has a feast all
prepared for you.”
She extended both hands as he reached the foot of the stairs. Tum took
the hands. His eyes were only for Jeanne.
It was a jolly tea they had, Jeanne, the artist, and Tum. Tum’s shyness
at being in the presence of a great personage gradually passed away.
Quite frankly at last he told his story. His music had been the gift of
his mother. A talented woman, she had taught him from the age of three.
When she could go no farther, she had employed a great teacher to help
him.
“They called me a prodigy.” He sighed. “I never liked that very much. I
played at women’s clubs and all sorts of luncheons and all the ladies
clapped their hands. Some of the ladies had kind faces—some of them,” he
repeated slowly. “I played only for those who had kind faces.”
“But now,” he ended rather abruptly, “my teacher is gone. My mother is
gone. I am no longer a prodigy, nor am I a grown musician, so—”
“So you play for the pigeons on the roof!” Jeanne laughed a trifle
uncertainly.
“And for angels,” Tum replied, looking straight into her eyes. Jeanne
flushed.
“What does he mean?” Miss Mabee asked, puzzled.
“That angels come down from the sky at night,” Jeanne replied teasingly.
“But Miss Mabee,” she demanded, “what does one do between the time he is
a prodigy and when he is a man?”
“Oh, I—I don’t know.” Miss Mabee stirred her tea thoughtfully. “He just
does the best he can, gets around among people and hopes something will
happen. And, bye and bye, something does happen. Then all is lovely.
“Excuse me!” She sprang to her feet. “There’s the phone.”
“But you?” said Tum, “you, Miss Jeanne, are a famous dancer—you must be.”
“No.” Jeanne was smiling. “I am only a dancing gypsy. Once, it is true, I
danced a light opera. And once, just once—” her eyes shone. “Once I
danced in that beautiful Opera House down by the river. That Opera House
is closed now. What a pity! I danced in the _Juggler of Notre Dame_. And
the people applauded. Oh, how they did applaud!
“But a gypsy—” her voice dropped. “With a gypsy it is different. Nothing
wonderful lasts with a gypsy. So now—” she laughed a little, low laugh.
“Now I’m just a wild dancing bumble bee with invisible wings on my feet.”
“Are you?” The boy’s eyes shone with a sudden light. “Do you know this?”
Taking up his violin, he began to play.
“What is it?” she demanded, enraptured.
“They call it ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee.’”
“Play it again.”
Tum played it again. Jeanne sat entranced.
“_Encore!_” she exclaimed.
Then, snatching up a thin gauzy shawl of iridescent silk, she went
leaping and whirling, flying across the room.
In the meantime, Miss Mabee, who had returned, stood in a corner
fascinated.
And it was truly worthy of her admiration. As a dancer, when the mood
seized her Jeanne could be a spark, a flame, a gaudy, darting
humming-bird, and now indeed she was a bee with invisible wings on her
feet.
“That,” exclaimed the artist, “is a tiny masterpiece of music and
dancing! It must be preserved. Others must know of it. We shall find a
time and place. You shall see, my children.”
Jeanne flushed with pleasure. Tum was silent, but deep in both their
hearts was the conviction that this was one of the truly large moments of
their lives.