CHAPTER XIX
A NOMADIC MINSTREL
Striking west into New York State, Diane had come into Orange County,whence she wound slowly down into northern Jersey, through the Poconos.For days now the dusty wanderers had followed the silver flash of theDelaware, coming at length from a rugged, cooler country of mountainand lake into a sunny valley cleft by the singing river. It was agoodly land of peaceful villages tucked away mid age-old trees, ofgarrulous, kindly folks and covered bridges, of long, lazy canals withgrassy banks banding each shore of the rippling river, of tow-pathspadded by the feet of bargemen and bell-hung mules and lock-tenders.
At sunset one night Diane paid her toll at a Lilliputian house builtlike an architectural barnacle on to the end of a covered bridge, andwith a rumble of boards wound slowly through the dusty, twilight tunnelinto Pennsylvania. A little later a drowsy negro passed through with aload of hay, a barking dog and a mysterious voice, with a lazy drawl,which directed the payment of the toll from among the hay. Still latera musical nomad driving an angular horse from the seat of a ramshacklecart, accoutered, among other orchestral devices, with clashingcymbals, a drum and a handle which upon being turned a trifle by thecurious tollgate keeper aroused a fearful musical commotion in the cart.
From her camp on a wooded spot by the river, Diane presently watchedthe hay-camp anchor with maddening ease for the night. Ras built afire, unhitched the horses, produced a variety of things from the seatof the pantry and took his table equipment from his hat. Philipsmoked, removed an occasional wisp of hay from his hair and shiedfriendly pebbles at Richard Whittington.
Diane was busy making coffee when the third nomad appeared with hismusic machine, and, halting near her, alighted and fell stiffly toturning the eventful crank.
Instantly two terrible drumsticks descended and with globularextremities thumped, by no visible agency, upon the drum. The cymbalsclashed--and a long music record began to unfold in segments like apapier-mache snake.
"Well," exclaimed Diane fervently, "I do wish he'd stop! For all we'veseen him so often he's never bothered us like this before."
The unfortunate and frequently flagellated "Glowworm," however,continued to glow fearfully, impelled to eruptive scintillation by thecrank, and the vocal lady "walked with Billy," and presently theminstrel came through the trees with his hat in his hand, his dark eyesvery humble and deferential.
Now as Diane nodded pleasantly and smiled and held forth a coin, thewandering minstrel suddenly swayed, clapped his hand to his foreheadwith a choking groan and pitched forward senseless upon the ground ather feet. Diane jumped.
"Johnny!" she exclaimed in keen alarm, "we've another invalid. Turnhim over!" But it was not Johnny who performed this service for theunfortunate minstrel. It was Mr. Poynter.
"Hum!" said Philip dryly. "That's most likely retribution. A mancan't unwind all that hullabaloo without feeling the strain. Water,Johnny, and if you have some smelling salts handy, bring 'em along."
After one or two vigorous attentions on the part of Mr. Poynter, thenomad of the music machine opened his eyes and stared blankly abouthim. That he was not yet quite himself, however, was readily apparent,for meeting Mr. Poynter's unsmiling glance, he grew very white andfaint and begged for water.
Philip supplied it without a word. After an interval of unsympatheticsilence, during which the minstrel's eyes roved uncertainly about thecamp and returned each time to Philip's face in a fascinated stare, hefeebly strove to rise but fell back groaning.
"If--if I might stay here for but the night," he begged pathetically,his accent slightly foreign.
"That's impossible!" said Philip curtly. "I'll help you to your rumpusmachine and back there in the village you will find an inn. My manwill go with you."
"Philip!" exclaimed Diane with spirit. "The man is ill."
"I'm not denying it," averred Philip stubbornly. "Nor is there anydenying the existence of the inn."
"How can you be so heartless!"
"One may also be prudent."
"He'll stay here of course if he wishes. The inn is a mile back."
"Diane!"
"Is he the first?" flashed Diane impetuously.
Philip reddened but his eyes were sombre. The knife and the bullet hadengendered a certain cynicism.
"As you will!" said he. And consigning to Johnny the care of theinvalid, who watched him depart with furtive relief, Philip strode offthrough the woods. Hospitality, reflected Philip unquietly, was allright in its place, but Diane was an extremist. After supper,however--for Philip was inherently kind hearted and sympathetic--hedispatched Ras to unhitch the minstrel's snorting steed and remove theeccentric music machine from the highway. Johnny had alreadyaccomplished both.
Smoking, Philip stared at the firelit hollow where his lady'sfire-tinted tents glimmered spectrally through the trees. He wasrelieved to see that the camp's unbidden guest lay comfortably upon hisown blankets by the fire.
Somehow the minstrel's face, clean-shaven, strikingly brown of skin andunmistakably foreign beneath the thatch of dark hair sparsely veined ingrey, lingered hauntingly in his memory.
"Where in thunder have I seen him before?" wondered Philip restlessly."There's something about his eyes and forehead--on the road probably,for of course I've passed him a number of times. Still--Lord!" addedPhilip with a burst of impatience, "what a salamander I am, to be sure!Whittington, old top, ever since I've known our gypsy lady, I've donenothing but fuss."
But, nevertheless, when Diane's camp finally settled into quiet for thenight, there was a watchful sentry in the forest who did not retire tohis bed of hay until Johnny was astir at daybreak. And Philip was tofind his bearings in a staggering flash of memory and know no peace formany a day to come.