CHAPTER XXIII

FLORENCE SOLVES A MYSTERY

That night, by the light of a fickle moon that ever and anon hid himself behind a cloud, Florence made her way alone to the shores of that curious island of "made land" on the lake front. She had determined to delve more deeply into the mysteries of this island. On this night she was destined to make an astonishing discovery.

It was not a promising place to wander, this island. There, when the moon hid 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 meant to solve them. Besides, the place was gloriously peaceful, and Florence loved peace.

She did not, however, love peace alone. She yearned for all manner of excitement. Most of all she was enchanted by sudden contrast. One moment: silence, the moon, the stars, placid waters, peace; the next: a sound of alarm, darkness, the onrush of adventure and unsolved mystery. This, for Florence, was abundance of life.

She had come to the island to find peace. But she would also probe into a mystery.

As she neared the southern end of the island where stood the jungle of young 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, it pointed away toward black waters.

"No! No!" Florence laughed low. "Not there. The mystery lies deep in the heart of this young forest."

Straight down the path she strode to find herself standing at last before that challenging door of massive oak.

"Ah!" she breathed. "At home. They can't deny it." Light was streaming through the great round eyes above her.

Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a hand to rap on that door. What sort 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 was released. 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 arms about the girl's waist. "And to think of you findin' me here!"

For a moment the air was filled with exclamations and ejaculations. After that, explanations were in order.

If you have read _The Thirteenth Ring_, you will remember well enough that Aunt Bobby was a ship's cook who had cooked her way up and down one of the Great Lakes a thousand times or more, and that on one memorable journey she had acted as a fairy godmother to one of Florence's pals. Florence had never forgotten her, though their journeys had carried them to 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 my grandchild. Grew up on the ship, she did, amongst sailors. Tie a knot and cast off a line with the best of them, she can, and skin up a mast better than most.

"But the captain would have it she must have book learnin'. So here we are, all high and dry on land. And her a-goin' off to school every mornin'. But when school is over, you should see her--into every sort of thing.

"Ah, yes," she sighed, "she's a problem, is Meg!"

Meg, who might have been nearing sixteen, smiled, crossed her legs like a man, and then put on a perfect imitation of a sailor contemptuously smoking a cob pipe--only there was no pipe.

"This place, do you ask?" Aunt Bobby went on. "Meg calls it the cathedral, 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 cathedral for us, where we could look at the water when we liked. Part of it is from an old ship that sank in the river and was raised up, and part, like the pillars, comes from the rubbish heap.

"I do say, though, they made a neat job of it. Meg'll show you her stateroom after a bit.

"But now, Meg, get down the cups. Coffee's on the stove as it always was in the galleys."

Florence smiled. She was liking this. Here she was finding contrast. She thought of the richly appointed Opera House where at this moment Jeanne haunted the boxes; then she glanced about her and smiled again.

She recalled the irrepressible Meg as she had seen her, a bronze statue against the sky, and resolved to know more of her.

As they sat dreaming over their coffee cups, Aunt Bobby began to speak of the romance of other days and to dispense with unstinting hand rich portions 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. Some mighty fine ones and some not so fine. Mostly I signed on freighters because I loved them best of all. They haul and carry.

"They're sort of human, ships are." She cupped her chin in her hands to stare dreamily at the fire. "Sort of like folks, ships are. Some are slim and pretty and not much use except just to play around when the water's sparklin' and the sun shines bright. That's true of folks and ships alike. 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 enough for me. She's like the most of us common workers, carrying things, doing the things that need to be done, moving straight on through sunshine and storm until the task is completed and the work is done.

"Yes, child, I've sailed for forty years. I've watched the moon paint a path of gold over waters blacker than the night. I've heard the ice screaming as it ground against our keel, and I've tossed all night in a storm 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 the mellow toll of a bell at midnight. "Forty years I've felt the pitch and toss, the swell and roll beneath me. And now this!" She spread her arms wide.

"The ground beneath my feet, a roof over my head.

"But not for long, child. Not for long. A few months now, and a million pairs of feet will tramp past the spot where you now stand. What will these people see? Not the cathedral, as Meg will call it, nothing half as grand.

"And we, Meg and me, we'll move on. Fate will point his finger and we'll move.

"Ah, well, that's life for most of us. Sooner or later Fate points and we move. He's a traffic cop, is Fate. We come to a pause. He blows his whistle, he waves his arm. We move or he moves us.

"And, after all," she heaved a deep sigh that was more than half filled with contentment, "who'd object to that? Who wants to sit and grow roots like stupid little cottonwood trees?"