LETTERS
Buckwheat was cut, harvest brooded hazily over the land and the fields
were bright with goldenrod when Diane turned sharply across Virginia to
Kentucky.
"It is already autumn," she wrote to Ann Sherrill. "The summer has
flown by like a bright-winged bird. For days now the forests have been
splashed with red and gold. The orchards are heavy with harvest
apples, the tassels of the corn are dark and rusty, and the dooryards
of the country houses riot gorgeously in scarlet sage and marigold,
asters and gladiolas. The twilight falls more swiftly now and the
nights are cooler but before the frost sweeps across the land I shall
be in Georgia.
"For all it is autumn elsewhere, here in this wonderful blue grass
land, it is spring again, a second spring. The autumn sunlight over
the woods and pastures is deeply, richly yellow. There are meadow
larks and off somewhere the tinkle of a cow bell. Oh, Ann, how good it
is to be alive!
"Ages ago, in that remote and barbarous past when I lived with a roof
above my head, there were times when every pulse of my body cried and
begged for life--for gypsy life and gypsy wind and the song of the
roaring river! Now, somehow, I feel that I have lived indeed--so fully
that a wonderful flood tide of peace and happiness flows strongly in my
veins. I am brown and happy. Each day I cook and tramp and fish and
swim and sleep--how I sleep with the leaves rustling a lullaby of
infinite peace above me! Would you believe that I lived for two days
and nights in a mountain cave? I did indeed, but Johnny was greatly
troubled. Aunt Agatha stuffed his head with commands.
"The South thrills and calls. After all, though I was born in the
Adirondacks, I am Southern, every inch of me. The Westfalls have been
Florida folk since the beginning of time.
"There is an interesting nomad in a picturesque suit of corduroy who
crosses my path from time to time with an eccentric music-machine.
Sometimes I see him gravely organ-grinding for a crowd of youngsters,
sometimes--with an innate courtliness characteristic of him--for a
white-haired couple by a garden gate. He is wandering about in search
of health. Oddly, his way lies, too, through Kentucky and Tennessee,
to Florida. He--and Ann, dear, this confidence of his I must beg you
to respect, as I know you will--is a Hungarian nobleman, picturesquely
disguised because of some political quarrel with his country. He
writes excellent verse in French and Latin, is a clever linguist, and
has a marvelous fund of knowledge about birds and flowers. Altogether
he is a cultured, courtly, handsome man whom I have found vastly
entertaining. Romantic, isn't it?
"A letter to Eadsville, Kentucky, will reach me if you write as soon as
this reaches you.
"Ever yours,
"Diane."
Let him who is more versed in the science of a nomad's mind than I, say
why there was no mention of the hay-camp!
Ann's answer came in course of time to Eadsville. As Ann talked in
sprightly italics, so was her letter made striking and emphatic by
numberless underlinings.
"How _very_ romantic!" ran a part of it. "I am _mad_ about your
nobleman! Isn't it _wonderful_ to have such unique and thrilling
adventures? I suppose you hung things up on the walls of the cave and
built a delightfully smoky fire and that the Hungarian--_bless_ his
heart!--trimmed his corduroy suit with an ancestral stiletto, and paid
his courtly respects to the beautiful gypsy hermit and fell
_desperately_ in love with her, as well he might. I would _myself_!
"Diane, I simply _must_ see him! I'm dying for a new sensation. Ever
since Baron Tregar's car was stolen from the farm garage and his
handsome secretary _mysteriously_ disappeared (by the way, it's Philip
Poynter--Carl knows him--do you?) and then reappeared with a most
unsatisfactory explanation which didn't in the least explain where he
had been--only to up and disappear again as strangely as before, and
the _very_ next morning--life has been terribly monotonous. And mother
had a rustic seizure and made us stay at the farm _all_ summer.
Imagine! Dick's aeroplaned the tops off _all_ the trees!
"_Do_ beg your Hungarian to join us at Palm Beach in January. It would
be _most interesting_ and novel and I'll _swear_ on the ancestral
stiletto to preserve his incognito! You remember you solemnly promised
to come to me in January, no matter _where_ you were! My enthusiasm
grows as I write--it always does. I'm planning a _fête de
nuit_--masked of course. Do please induce the romantic musician to
attend. I _must_ have him. I'm sure he'll enjoy a few days of
conventional respectability and so will you. I'll lend you as many
gowns as you need, you dear, delightful gypsy!"
To which Diane's answer was eminently satisfactory.
"Last night as Johnny was getting supper," she wrote, "our minstrel
appeared with a great bunch of silver-rod and I begged him to stay to
supper. He was greatly gratified and when later I confessed my
indiscreet revelation to you--and your invitation--he accepted it
instantly. He will be honored to be your guest, he said, provided of
course he may depend upon us to preserve his incognito. That is very
important. Do you know it is astonishing how I find myself keyed up to
the most amazing pitch of interest in him--he's so mysterious and
romantic and magnetic.
"Your constant craving for new and original sensations brings back a
lot of memories. Will you never get over it?
"I shall probably leave the van with Johnny at Jacksonville and go down
by rail. There are certain spectacular complications incident to an
arrival at Palm Beach in the van which would be very distasteful, to
say the least. Besides, I'd be later than we planned."
For most likely, reflected Diane, nibbling intently at the end of her
pen, most likely Palm Beach had never seen a hay-camp and much Mr.
Poynter would care!