CHAPTER XLVIII
ON THE LAKE SHORE
With the departure of Philip and the Baron for St. Augustine, a feverof energy had settled over Diane. Riding, rowing, swimming, trampingmiles of Florida road, taking upon herself much of Johnny's camp labor,she ruthlessly tired herself out by day that she might soundly sleep bynight. Youth and health and Spartan courage were a wholesome trio.
Aunt Agatha watched, sniffed and frequently groaned.
How much the kindly ruse of Philip had helped, Diane herself could notsuspect, but her remorseful thoughts were frequently busy with memoriesof the old childhood days with Carl. He had been an excellenthorseman, a sturdy swimmer, an unerring shot, compelling respect inthose old, wild vacation days on the Florida plantation. If thecruelty had crept into her manner at an age when she could not know, ithad been a reflex of the attitude of the stern old planter whose sonand daughter had been so conspicuously erratic.
Gently enough, too, the girl sought to make Aunt Agatha comprehend thecurious facts that had come to light that morning beneath the trees.Quite in vain. That good lady refused flatly to absorb it, grewludicrously plaintive and aggrieved and flew off at tearful tangentsinto complicated segments of family history from which it was possibleto extricate only the most ridiculous of facts, chief among them thereiterated assurance that her own father had been, in the bosom of hisfamily, of a delightfully sportive nature, but nothing like theWestfalls--dear no!--that he had a genteel figure, my dear, for all hehad developed a somewhat corpulent tendency in later years; that thecorn-beef which mother procured was highly superior to those portionsof salted quadruped which Johnny obtained in the village--and facts ofsimilar irrelevancy.
Diane had heard of the corn-beef and father's corpulency before, butshe was now somewhat gentler and less impatient and checked the oldcareless flashes of annoyance. And, having supplemented the hand bagby a shopping trip to the nearest village, Aunt Agatha, to the girl'sdismay, announced one day:
"It's my duty to stay, Diane, and stay I will. Mother would havestayed, I'm sure, and mother's judgment was usually correct, though shewould wear smoked glasses."
Rowing in one morning with a string of fish, Diane was a littlefluttered at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered young man upon theshore, who waved his hat and quietly waited for her boat to come in.His dark skin was clear and ruddy and very brown, his mouth resolute,the careless grace and impudence of his old manner replaced bysomething steadier, quieter and possibly a shade less assured.
The meeting was by no means easy for either, and with remorsefulmemories leaping wildly in the heart of each, they smiled and calledcheerfully to one another until the girl's boat glided in under theready assistance of a masculine hand that shook a little.
"Let me moor it for you!" said Carl and busied himself with the ropefor longer than the careless task would seem to warrant. When atlength he straightened up again and briskly brushed the sand from hiscoat sleeve to cover his emotion, he forced himself to meet hiscousin's troubled glance directly.
Instantly the careless byplay ceased. The desperate imploring in theeyes of each keyed the situation to electric tensity. Curiouslyenough, both were thinking of Philip. Curiously enough, in this hourof reckoning Philip was an invisible arbiter urging them to generousunderstanding.
Diane was the first to speak. And, in the fashion of Diane sincechildhood, she bravely plunged into the heart of the thing withglistening eyes.
"Carl," she said, "I am very sorry."
It was heartfelt apology for the old offense.
Carl's face went wildly scarlet. The girl's gentleness, prepared as hewas for the inevitable flash of fire, had caught him unawares.Springing forward, he caught her hands roughly in his own.
"Don't!" he said roughly. "For God's sake, Diane, don't! It's awfullydecent of you--but--but I can't stand it! Have you forgotten--" hechoked. "Surely," he said, "Philip told you all. He promised--"
"Yes," said Diane, "and--and that's why--" She was very close to tearsnow, but with the old imperiousness, with the Spartan pride of theWestfall training behind her, she flung back her head with a quick drysob, her eyes imploring.
"Let's both forget," she said. "Oh, Carl, I was cruel, cruel! I--Ican not see now what made me so. Philip is right. He is always justand honorable. He blames himself and me. You'll forgive me?"
"_I forgive_!" faltered Carl.
"There were forces driving you," said Diane steadily, "but I--wasdeliberate. Let's pledge to a new beginning. Let me be your friend asPhilip is."
Their hands tightened in a clasp whose warmth was prophetic.
Mic-co's words rang again in Carl's ears.
"Fate is slipping into the groove of your life people who are destinedto care greatly!"
Diane was another!
Deeply moved, Carl glanced away over the sunlit water, rippling andsparkling with myriad shafts of light.
"Let's sit here on the bank a minute," he said. "There's something Imust tell you. It's all right," he added with a smile, interpretingher glance aright, "I made my peace with Aunt Agatha before you camein. She burst into tears at the sight of me and retired to her tent.I can't make out just why, but I think she said it was either becauseI'm so tanned and a little thinner, or because none of her family wereever addicted to disappearing, or because she has an uncle who's abishop. I came from Philip."
"Philip!"
"Yes. He came to Mic-co's the morning I was leaving. Later we metagain at a village on the outskirts of the Glades. He waited for me.There was a telegram there from the Baron. Philip said he knew you'dforgive him if he sent his message on by me--his father is very ill."
"Poor Philip!" exclaimed the girl. In the fullness of her swiftcompassion she forgot why Philip had gone back to the Indian village.It flooded back directly and her wistful eyes implored.
"It was a jealous lie," said Carl gently. "The old chief knew. TheIndian who told it hated your father."
Diane sat so white and still that Carl touched her diffidently upon thearm.
"Don't look so!" he pleaded. "There was some difficulty at first, forPhilip's Seminole is nearly as fragmentary as the old chief's English,but they called in Sho-caw and after a host of blunders andmisunderstandings, Philip ran the thing to earth at last. Theodomirmarried and divorced your mother in the Indian village just as thepaper in the candlestick said."
Still the girl did not speak or move and Carl saw with compassion thatthe veins of her throat were throbbing wildly. He fell quietly totalking of Keela, caught her interest and watched with a sense ofrelief the rich color flood back to his cousin's lips and cheeks.
It was plain the tale of the golden mask had startled her a little, forshe laid her hand impetuously upon his arm, and her eyes searched hisface with troubled intentness.
"It will all be very singular and daring," she faltered after a while."I had thought of something like it myself--to help her, I mean. Youare so--_different_, Carl! I know of no man who might dare so much andwin." Then with unconscious tribute to one whose opinion she valuedabove all others, she added: "Philip trusts you utterly. He has saidso. And Philip knows!"
Carl glanced furtively at her face and cleared his throat.
"Diane," he asked gravely, "I wonder how much that incredible tale ofthe old candlestick pleased you?"
"I don't know," said Diane honestly. "I wish I did. I've wondered andwondered. No matter how hard I think, it doesn't somehow come right.It's like shattering a cherished crystal into fragments to think thatevery tie of blood and country I valued is meaningless--that everymemory is a mockery--that grandfather and you and Aunt Agatha--" shepaused and sighed. "When I try to realize," she finished, "I feel verylonely and afraid."
"And Philip?" hinted Carl.
"I don't think he is pleased."
"You're right," said Carl with decision. "It upset him a lot. Butthat night by the old chief's camp fire, Philip discovered--"
"Yes?"
/> "That some imperfection in the stilted wording of the hidden paper hadled us all astray. Philip said he could not be sure--there was so muchfuss and trouble and misunderstanding--but the old chief had nursedTheodomir through some dreadful illness and knew it all. They werestaunch friends. Norman Westfall came into the Glades hunting with afriend. He persuaded your mother to go away with him, but theywent--_alone_!"
"You mean--"
"That they did not take a child away from the Indian village as thepaper in the candlestick declares--"
"And the daughter of Theodomir?"
"Is Keela. They left her by the old chief's wigwam."
Diane stared.