The Phantom Violin
CHAPTER XIV SECRET OF GREENSTONE RIDGE
Late next afternoon the _Ship of Joy_ with Bihari and his band, includingJeanne and the bear, went gliding down the long, narrow stretch of waterknown as Rock Harbor. As Jeanne, seated in a sunny spot on the deck,watched the small island to the left go gliding by, she felt, as onefeels the current of galvanic electricity go coursing through his system,the thrill and mild terror that comes when one senses impendingadventure, terror, or disaster. She could not tell what was to happen.
"Something will happen," a voice seemed to whisper. "You are comingnearer and nearer."
She did not doubt the voice. It had come to her before. Such is the giftof wandering people; they feel and know in advance.
No, she did not doubt. And yet, the low sun shone so mildly, waves lappedthe boat's sides so dreamily, islands of green and brown glided by solike drifting shadows, she forgot all else and, stretching out upon thedeck, she surrendered herself to the spell of it all.
Not for long. A chill wind came sweeping over the tops of the islands.Dark clouds scurried overhead.
"This is bad!" Bihari grumbled. "Our next stop is Chippewa Harbor. Wemust go out into the lake to get there. Lake Superior is bad when he isangry. He puts out hands and seizes small boats. He drags them down andthey are never seen again.
"At Chippewa Harbor there are little cabins and just now a large partycamping in tents. We will sing and dance for them.
"But tomorrow--" he laughed a large, good-natured laugh. "Tomorrow. Wehave with us always tomorrow. That will do.
"In this harbor we are safe. Tonight we will sing for ourselves."
He was right. When at last they reached the narrow passage through whichthey were to glide into broad, open waters, they saw an endless field ofblack and white, a stormy sea.
Pulling in behind a small island where the wind could not reach them andthe water was at rest, they dropped anchor and at once the gypsy bandwere engaged in a merry and quite innocent revel of wild music.
Jeanne did not join them. Had one asked her why, she perhaps could nothave told. She thought of Florence and Greta, wondered if they were atthe wreck or on land, wondered, too, how the wreck would stand the storm.She thought of friends in Chicago and her castle in France where hergreat-aunt saw to it that she lived up to her position as a great younglady.
"Life," she whispered, "is strange. We long for the past. And when wefind it again, we are not sure that we want it. Life, it seems, goes onand on, but never truly backward. We must go on and on with it to theend. And then--
"Oh, but life is truly wonderful!" she cried, springing to her feet anddoing a wild fling across the deck. "Who would not love to live on and onand on forever!
"And perhaps--" her voice dropped as if in a prayer. "Perhaps we shall."
Jeanne's soul was like a day of clouds and sunshine, a change with everytick of the clock.
Next instant she had caught sight of a tall, narrow tower rising above alow building.
"The abandoned lighthouse!" she cried. "That is where our good friend thefisher boy, Swen, lives. He told me he had his home with his father andmother in that tower. What an odd home it must be! No corners in therooms at all. Oh, I must see it and our good friend Swen!"
Next instant she sprang into a boat bumping at the side of the schooner,untied the rope, seized the oars and rowed away alone. Even as she didthis there came over her again that sense of impending danger.
* * * * * * * *
Greenstone Ridge, like the backbone of a very lean horse, runs the entirelength of Isle Royale. The crest of that ridge may be reached only byclimbing a very steep slope. This climb is broken by narrow plateaus.When Florence and Greta had reached the first plateau they turned theirbacks upon that end of the island that was known to them and headedstraight on into the great unknown.
They came at once upon a well-trodden moose trail. Hundreds of moosewander from end to end of this strange island. This trail made traveleasy. Moss soft as carpet, bits of soft wood beaten into pulp, with hereand there a stretch of black earth or gray rock, offered pleasant footingfor their patiently plodding feet.
"We'll stop at noon," Florence said. "Have a cold lunch and a good rest.We'll travel some more after that. When we're tired we'll find a big flatrock, build a fire, make hot chocolate, fry bacon, have a real feast.Then the tent and blankets. We'll be living where no one has lived,explorers. Won't it be grand?"
Greta had thought it might be. She did not feel quite sure. Pictures ofher own safe bed, of a table spread with snowy linen and shining silver,floated before her eyes. "If mother could see me now!" she whispered.
"But, oh, it is good to breathe--just breathe!" Throwing back hershoulders, she drank in a breath of air that was like water, clear andcold from a deep well.
On this long tramp Florence led the way. Never a person who would wastebreath with idle talk on such an occasion, she plodded along in silence.For all that, her active brain was busy. She was thinking through a veryspecial and private interview she had had with Swen the fisher boy onlythree days before.
"So you are going way back up yonder?" He had waved a sun-browned armtoward the distant ridge.
"Yes." Florence had caught her breath. "Yes, we are going up there. Won'tit be gr-a-a-nd! They say no one goes up there--that perhaps no one hasever been up there. It must be lonely, silent, beautiful!"
"It's all of that." The fisherman's blue eyes were frank and kind. "But Ithought I'd ought to tell you, just in case you don't know, there'ssomeone waiting for you up there."
"No." The girl spoke quickly. "No, there is no one at all. We are goingby ourselves, just Greta and I. We sent no one ahead."
"I believe you," Swen replied. "All the same, there's someone up there.I'll tell you how I know."
As if to collect his thoughts, he had paused, looking away at GreenstoneRidge. Florence recalled that now.
It was worth looking at, that ridge. In truth, every little corner ofthis large island was worth looking at.
Just then the setting sun had transformed the far-away green of spruceand balsam into a crown of green and gold.
"I'll tell you why I know there's someone up there," Swen went onpresently. "I've got a little store down by the end of the harbor. Fourtimes that store has been entered. Things have been taken. Not stolen;just taken and the money left to pay for them. The first three times itwas food they took. The last time it was a grinding stone for polishinggreenstone. Cost me five dollars. The five was there. Can you beat that?"
"But your store is on the other side of the island," Florence hadprotested. "That's another place entirely. We're not going there."
"It's all the same ridge," Swen explained, patiently. "When you come tothe tip-top of the ridge and if you go far enough toward the center ofthe island--not so far, either--you can look down on Duncan's Bay on yourside and upon our harbor on the other.
"And up there somewhere," he added with conviction, "there's someone. Iknow it! He took things from our store."
Florence had thought of Greta's phantom. Could it be that there truly wassomeone living on this ridge? And would they discover that person?
"He pays for things he takes. He is honest," she argued to herself. "Heloves music. No true musician could be unkind or brutal."
"But, after all," she had insisted, turning her face to Swen, "after all,there is no one. A boat came along at night. The people in the boat tookthe things from your store."
"Came in a boat, that's what I thought at first." The light of mysteryshone in the fisherman's eye. "But the last time, that time he took thegrinding wheel and left the five dollars in gold, there was a storm onold Superior, a terrible nor-easter. No one could have lived in that sea.And there wasn't so much as a rowboat in the harbor.
"And that person don't live on the shore, either," he went on after amoment. "Know every boat of the shore, I do. Naturally, then, they're upthere on Greensto
ne Ridge somewhere, someone is, that's certain."
"How--how long ago?" The words had stuck in Florence's throat.
"First time was all of a year ago. Last time, early this spring."
"Then--then perhaps he's gone. This is August, you know."
"Maybe, miss. Somehow I don't think so."
"Why would anyone stay a whole year in such a place? Think what it wouldmean!" Her eyes had opened wide. "No companions! No food except what youhave taken up. All alone!"
"You're assuming there's only one. I don't know. There might be more.Articles have been found missing from cottages closed for the winter,food and clothing. Always paid for, though. One fisherman, who was verypoor, found the price of three pairs of boots left for one pair;well-worn ones they were, too.
"But why do they stay up there?" he went on. "It's your question. Perhapsyou will find the answer."
"Wh--why haven't you been up there to see?" Florence asked.
"Me? See here, miss, I'm a fisherman--belong to the water. No landlubberin' for mine! And besides, I've a father and mother to look after.I got my money for the things he took, didn't I? Then what call do I havelooking into places like that?"
Once again the girl had looked away to the place where the ridge must be.It was gone, swallowed up in the night. Not a light had shone up there.Not a campfire gleamed.
"There is no one up there," she had whispered to herself as she stoodalone on the deck of the wrecked ship, straining her eyes for even a verysmall gleam against the sky. "There can't be. They'd have a lamp of somesort, even if it were only a pine knot torch."
Then of a sudden she had thought of the curious green light Greta hadseen at a distance on that very ridge.
"What could have caused that light?" she had asked herself.
She asked it all over again as she trudged away over the moose trail.
"Of course," she thought, "there's the head hunter. But he's out. Suchmen don't climb ridges unless they're obliged to--too lazy for that! Andthey don't make divine music nor light green lamps at night.
"I suppose," she whispered to herself after a time, "suppose I shouldhave told Greta what Swen said, but--"
Well, she just hadn't wanted to, that was all. Perhaps she had beenselfish, she had wanted this trip so much. She had wanted company too.And too much talk about the secrets of Greenstone Ridge might havefrightened Greta out altogether.
"Do you know why they call this Greenstone Ridge?" she said aloud toGreta.
"No. Why?"
"Because there is a kind of quartz embedded in some of the rocks. Theycall these greenstones. They are about the seventh most valuable stone inthe world."
"Shall we find some?" Greta's tone was eager.
"We'll hope so." Florence shifted her pack. "They make grand settings forrings, things like that. You chip them from the rocks with a chisel orhatchet."
"Green stones," Greta whispered to herself. "Green stone and a greenlight on this very ridge. Of course, there's no connection; but then,it's sort of strange."