CHAPTER XXIII FLORENCE SOLVES A MYSTERY
That night, by the light of a fickle moon that ever and anon hid himselfbehind a cloud, Florence made her way alone to the shores of that curiousisland of "made land" on the lake front. She had determined to delve moredeeply into the mysteries of this island. On this night she was destinedto make an astonishing discovery.
It was not a promising place to wander, this island. There, when the moonhid his face, darkness reigned supreme.
Yet, even at such times as these, she was not afraid. Strong as a man,endowed with more than the average man's courage, she dared many things.There were problems regarding that island which needed solving. She meantto solve them. Besides, the place was gloriously peaceful, and Florenceloved peace.
She did not, however, love peace alone. She yearned for all manner ofexcitement. Most of all she was enchanted by sudden contrast. One moment:silence, the moon, the stars, placid waters, peace; the next: a sound ofalarm, darkness, the onrush of adventure and unsolved mystery. This, forFlorence, was abundance of life.
She had come to the island to find peace. But she would also probe into amystery.
As she neared the southern end of the island where stood the jungle ofyoung cottonwood trees, she paused to look away at the ragged shore line.There, hanging above the rough boulders, was Snowball's fishing derrick.Like a slim, black arm, as if to direct the girl's search out to sea, itpointed away toward black waters.
"No! No!" Florence laughed low. "Not there. The mystery lies deep in theheart of this young forest."
Straight down the path she strode to find herself standing at last beforethat challenging door of massive oak.
"Ah!" she breathed. "At home. They can't deny it." Light was streamingthrough the great round eyes above her.
Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a hand to rap on that door. Whatsort of people were these, anyway? What was she letting herself in for?
She had not long to wait. The door flew open. A flood of white light wasreleased. And in that light Florence stood, open-mouthed, speechless,staring.
"Wa-all," came in a not unfriendly voice, "what is it y' want?"
"Aunt--Aunt Bobby!" Florence managed to stammer.
"Yes, that's me. And who may you be? Step inside. Let me have a look.
"Florence! My own hearty Florence!" The aged woman threw two stout armsabout the girl's waist. "And to think of you findin' me here!"
For a moment the air was filled with exclamations and ejaculations. Afterthat, explanations were in order.
If you have read _The Thirteenth Ring_, you will remember well enoughthat Aunt Bobby was a ship's cook who had cooked her way up and down oneof the Great Lakes a thousand times or more, and that on one memorablejourney she had acted as a fairy godmother to one of Florence's pals.Florence had never forgotten her, though their journeys had carried themto different ports.
"But, Aunt Bobby," she exclaimed at last, "what can you be doing here?And how did such a strange home as this come into being?"
"It's all on account of her." Aunt Bobby nodded toward a slim girl who,garbed in blue overalls, sat beside the box-like stove. "She's mygrandchild. Grew up on the ship, she did, amongst sailors. Tie a knot andcast off a line with the best of them, she can, and skin up a mast betterthan most.
"But the captain would have it she must have book learnin'. So here weare, all high and dry on land. And her a-goin' off to school everymornin'. But when school is over, you should see her--into every sort ofthing.
"Ah, yes," she sighed, "she's a problem, is Meg!"
Meg, who might have been nearing sixteen, smiled, crossed her legs like aman, and then put on a perfect imitation of a sailor contemptuouslysmoking a cob pipe--only there was no pipe.
"This place, do you ask?" Aunt Bobby went on. "Meg calls it thecathedral, she does, on account of the pillars.
"Them pillars was lamp-posts once, broken lamp-posts from the boulevard.Dumped out here, they was. The captain and his men put up the cathedralfor us, where we could look at the water when we liked. Part of it isfrom an old ship that sank in the river and was raised up, and part, likethe pillars, comes from the rubbish heap.
"I do say, though, they made a neat job of it. Meg'll show you herstateroom after a bit.
"But now, Meg, get down the cups. Coffee's on the stove as it always wasin the galleys."
Florence smiled. She was liking this. Here she was finding contrast. Shethought of the richly appointed Opera House where at this moment Jeannehaunted the boxes; then she glanced about her and smiled again.
She recalled the irrepressible Meg as she had seen her, a bronze statueagainst the sky, and resolved to know more of her.
As they sat dreaming over their coffee cups, Aunt Bobby began to speak ofthe romance of other days and to dispense with unstinting hand richportions from her philosophy.
"Forty years I lived on ships, child." She sighed deeply. "Forty years!I've sailed on big ones and small ones, wind-jammers and steamers. Somemighty fine ones and some not so fine. Mostly I signed on freightersbecause I loved them best of all. They haul and carry.
"They're sort of human, ships are." She cupped her chin in her hands tostare dreamily at the fire. "Sort of like folks, ships are. Some are slimand pretty and not much use except just to play around when the water'ssparklin' and the sun shines bright. That's true of folks and shipsalike. And I guess it's right enough. We all like pretty things.
"But the slow old freighter, smelling of bilge and tar, she's good enoughfor me. She's like the most of us common workers, carrying things, doingthe things that need to be done, moving straight on through sunshine andstorm until the task is completed and the work is done.
"Yes, child, I've sailed for forty years. I've watched the moon paint apath of gold over waters blacker than the night. I've heard the icescreaming as it ground against our keel, and I've tossed all night in astorm that promised every minute to send us to the bottom. Forty years,child, forty years!" The aged woman's voice rose high and clear like themellow toll of a bell at midnight. "Forty years I've felt the pitch andtoss, the swell and roll beneath me. And now this!" She spread her armswide.
"The ground beneath my feet, a roof over my head.
"But not for long, child. Not for long. A few months now, and a millionpairs of feet will tramp past the spot where you now stand. What willthese people see? Not the cathedral, as Meg will call it, nothing half asgrand.
"And we, Meg and me, we'll move on. Fate will point his finger and we'llmove.
"Ah, well, that's life for most of us. Sooner or later Fate points and wemove. He's a traffic cop, is Fate. We come to a pause. He blows hiswhistle, he waves his arm. We move or he moves us.
"And, after all," she heaved a deep sigh that was more than half filledwith contentment, "who'd object to that? Who wants to sit and grow rootslike stupid little cottonwood trees?"