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 the
Delaware, coming at length from a rugged, cooler country of mountain
and lake into a sunny valley cleft by the singing river. It was a
goodly land of peaceful villages tucked away mid age-old trees, of
garrulous, kindly folks and covered bridges, of long, lazy canals with
grassy banks banding each shore of the rippling river, of tow-paths
padded by the feet of bargemen and bell-hung mules and lock-tenders.
At sunset one night Diane paid her toll at a Lilliputian house built
like an architectural barnacle on to the end of a covered bridge, and
with a rumble of boards wound slowly through the dusty, twilight tunnel
into Pennsylvania. A little later a drowsy negro passed through with a
load 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 later
a musical nomad driving an angular horse from the seat of a ramshackle
cart, accoutered, among other orchestral devices, with clashing
cymbals, a drum and a handle which upon being turned a trifle by the
curious tollgate keeper aroused a fearful musical commotion in the cart.
From her camp on a wooded spot by the river, Diane presently watched
the hay-camp anchor with maddening ease for the night. Ras built a
fire, unhitched the horses, produced a variety of things from the seat
of the pantry and took his table equipment from his hat. Philip
smoked, removed an occasional wisp of hay from his hair and shied
friendly pebbles at Richard Whittington.
Diane was busy making coffee when the third nomad appeared with his
music machine, and, halting near her, alighted and fell stiffly to
turning the eventful crank.
Instantly two terrible drumsticks descended and with globular
extremities thumped, by no visible agency, upon the drum. The cymbals
clashed--and a long music record began to unfold in segments like a
papier-mache snake.
"Well," exclaimed Diane fervently, "I do wish he'd stop! For all we've
seen 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 the
crank, and the vocal lady "walked with Billy," and presently the
minstrel came through the trees with his hat in his hand, his dark eyes
very humble and deferential.
Now as Diane nodded pleasantly and smiled and held forth a coin, the
wandering minstrel suddenly swayed, clapped his hand to his forehead
with a choking groan and pitched forward senseless upon the ground at
her feet. Diane jumped.
"Johnny!" she exclaimed in keen alarm, "we've another invalid. Turn
him over!" But it was not Johnny who performed this service for the
unfortunate minstrel. It was Mr. Poynter.
"Hum!" said Philip dryly. "That's most likely retribution. A man
can'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, the
nomad of the music machine opened his eyes and stared blankly about
him. That he was not yet quite himself, however, was readily apparent,
for meeting Mr. Poynter's unsmiling glance, he grew very white and
faint and begged for water.
Philip supplied it without a word. After an interval of unsympathetic
silence, during which the minstrel's eyes roved uncertainly about the
camp and returned each time to Philip's face in a fascinated stare, he
feebly 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 rumpus
machine and back there in the village you will find an inn. My man
will go with you."
"Philip!" exclaimed Diane with spirit. "The man is ill."
"I'm not denying it," averred Philip stubbornly. "Nor is there any
denying 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 had
engendered a certain cynicism.
"As you will!" said he. And consigning to Johnny the care of the
invalid, who watched him depart with furtive relief, Philip strode off
through the woods. Hospitality, reflected Philip unquietly, was all
right in its place, but Diane was an extremist. After supper,
however--for Philip was inherently kind hearted and sympathetic--he
dispatched Ras to unhitch the minstrel's snorting steed and remove the
eccentric music machine from the highway. Johnny had already
accomplished both.
Smoking, Philip stared at the firelit hollow where his lady's
fire-tinted tents glimmered spectrally through the trees. He was
relieved to see that the camp's unbidden guest lay comfortably upon his
own blankets by the fire.
Somehow the minstrel's face, clean-shaven, strikingly brown of skin and
unmistakably foreign beneath the thatch of dark hair sparsely veined in
grey, 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!" added
Philip 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 done
nothing but fuss."
But, nevertheless, when Diane's camp finally settled into quiet for the
night, there was a watchful sentry in the forest who did not retire to
his bed of hay until Johnny was astir at daybreak. And Philip was to
find his bearings in a staggering flash of memory and know no peace for
many a day to come.