GOODBYE FAIR
Rosemary, Florence, Jeanne and Danby did not leave the Fair grounds at
once. Indeed they could not because of the crush. They did turn their
faces toward the exit.
As they pressed their way out of the dense throngs to a spot where there
was at least space for breathing, their eyes were greeted by strange
sights.
Off to the right a group of thoughtless revelers were tearing up a
hedge. Some were carrying away the shrubs as souvenirs, others were
using them as mock-weapons for beating one another over the back.
From a village where imitation towers reared themselves to the sky came
cries of laughter and screams of distress. Presently a throng broke
through the flimsy walls and came pouring out. They had gone too far in
their vandalism. The firemen had thrown a cooling stream of water on
their heated brows.
“They’ll have time enough to cool off now,” Danby Force laughed.
“But how sad to think that those who so often have come to this place to
find beauty and happiness should, on this last night, remain to
destroy!” There was a look of distress on the little French girl’s face.
“Come!” said Danby Force, “There are some things we must try to forget.
This is one of them. Let us always think of the great Fair as it was in
the height of its glory.”
As they moved on toward the Aisle of Flags, they came to a spot that,
like an eddy in a stream, even on this night of turmoil was at rest.
“Goodbye.” A boy was clasping a girl’s hand. “Goodbye Mary. See you at
the next Fair.”
Jeanne knew these two a little. They had worked side by side selling
orangeade and ice cream cones. Now it was “Goodbye until the next Fair.”
“And when that comes,” she murmured, “their hair will be gray. Goodbye
until the next Fair.”
As they passed an apparently deserted hot-dog stand, Jeanne caught sight
of a figure crumpled up in a dark corner. A young girl, perhaps not yet
eighteen, she sat with head on arms, silently sobbing.
Jeanne was gypsy enough to read that girl’s fortune. All through the
bright summer days and on into the glorious autumn, the great Fair had
offered her means of making a living. Perhaps she was helping to support
her parents. Who could tell? Now it was all over—the last hot-dog sold.
“Goodbye Fair,” Jeanne whispered, swallowing hard.
Stepping silently back, she slipped a bit of green paper into the girl’s
hand, then disappeared too quickly to be seen.
“Life must be beautiful,” she said to Danby Force, “but how can it be,
for all?”
“It must be increasingly beautiful for all.” The young man’s face set in
hard lines of determination.
Jeanne thought of the work he had done for his own little city, thought
too of those industrial spies who threatened to destroy it all. “I must
help,” she told herself almost fiercely. “I must do all I can. Life,”
she whispered reverently, “Life _must_ be beautiful.”
As for Florence, her mind all this while was so full of the morrow that
she had little thought for the passing hour. “Tomorrow,” she was saying
to herself, “I shall be speeding through the air with Danby Force on my
way to a new field and fresh adventure. I am to help the children, yes,
and the grownups, of a small city—to enjoy life. At the same time I am
to search for a spy.” She wondered in a vague sort of way what that
search would be like and how successful she would be as a lady
detective. She was wondering still when Danby Force said:
“Time for a hot drink before the clock strikes one.”
“Yes. Oh yes!” Jeanne’s voice rose in sudden eagerness. “I know the very
place. It is run by some English gypsies. At this time of night only
gypsies will be found there. But, ah my friend, such good tea as they
brew! You never could know until you have sipped it.”
“Ah, a gypsy’s den at one in the morning! Show us the way.” And Danby
hailed a taxi.
Ten minutes later they were entering a long, low basement room such as
only Jeanne had seen before. It was finished as the inside of the
ancient gypsy vans were finished, in a score of bright colors, red,
yellow, orange, blue, silver and gold. There were few lights. Some were
like ancient lanterns, and some were mere glimmering tapers. Trophies of
the hunt hung against the walls—the head of a deer, the grinning
skeleton of a wild boar’s head.
There were no chairs. Instead all sat, true gypsy fashion, on rugs.
Strange rugs they were too, woven of some heavy material and all
brightly colored.
In one corner a group of dark foreign looking people in bright costumes
sat smoking long-stemmed pipes and sipping tea. A cloud of smoke,
hanging close to the ceiling, created the illusion of low-hanging clouds
and the out-of-doors.
“Perfect!” Danby murmured.
At sound of his voice, a solidly built woman, wrapped in a bright shawl,
turned to look up at him. In her eyes was a dreamy look. Before her on
the floor were cards. On the cards were pictures—a snake, a house, a
fountain, a lion, a mouse, a burning fire.
“Madame Bihari!” Florence exclaimed, delighted. “And you have the gypsy
witch cards. You shall tell my fortune, for tomorrow I am to begin a
splendid new adventure.”
“You shall find beauty and happiness.” Madame smiled a glad smile. She
did not look at the cards. “You have learned a great secret. Health,
strength, sunshine, the wide out-of-doors—they are your great joy. With
these alone anyone may find happiness. You are a true gypsy at heart, my
splendid Florence.”
“Thank you. That is kind.” Florence favored her with a rare smile. “But
Madame, please, my fortune! You have never told it.”
“There is no need,” the gypsy woman murmured. “It is written in your
face.
“But sit you all down upon my rug. Order me a good cup of black tea and
you shall have as good a fortune as I can bring you. But beware, child!
You have insisted. If the cards turn up wrong, do not blame your poor
old Madame Bihari. It is you who shall shuffle, cut and deal—not I.”
When tea had been brought on a silver tray, Florence shuffled the cards,
cut them with her left hand, then placed them one by one in their proper
positions. Then Madame, bending forward, began to study them. The four
friends, forgetting their tea, sat upon their feet, waiting in eager
expectation. Moving in from their corner, the gypsies too watched in
silence.
Over one who has seen them often an indescribable spell is cast by the
gypsy witch cards. The serpent striking at some unseen object; the eye,
gleaming at you from the half darkness; the fire leaping from the
hearth; the mouse; the clasped hands; the lightning—all these and many
others appear to take on a special meaning. And so they do in very truth
to the teller of fortunes.
When at last Madame began to speak, an audible sigh rose from the little
group of watchers.
“You have friends.” Her voice was low and even as the murmur of a slow
moving stream. “Many friends. It is well, for there shall be perils.
There is one you may wish to trust, even to love a little; but you must
not, for that one is a traitor.”
“The spy!” Jeanne whispered in her companion’s ear.
“The spy!” Florence shuddered.
“You shall serve and shall be served,” Madame went on. “You shall
travel—high in air.”
“Tomorrow,” Danby laughed a low laugh.
“You are entering upon a fresh adventure. Will you succeed?” Madame
stared long at the cards. “It is not written here. The cards are silent.
Perhaps another time.” She looked up with a slow smile on her face.
“And now, Jeannie, my little one, my tea.”
A long sighing breath from every pair of lips, a light nervous laugh,
then the spell was broken. Florence knew her fortune. They might all
drink their tea, then scatter to their homes for a short night of
repose. To Florence, at least, the coming day would bring new scenes and
fresh promise of adventure.