CHAPTER XI
IN THE CAMP OF THE GYPSY LADY
From a garish dream of startling unpleasantness, Philip Poynter stirredand opened his eyes.
"Well, now," he mused uncomfortably, "this is more like it! This isthe sort of dream to have! I wonder I never had sufficient wit tocarve out one like this before. Birds and trees and wind fussingpleasantly around a fellow's bed--and by George! those birds are makingcoffee!"
There was a cheerful sound of flapping canvas and vanishing glimpses ofa woodland shot with sun-gold, of a camp fire and a pair of dogsromping boisterously. Moreover, though his bed was barely an inch fromthe ground to which it was staked over a couple of poles, it wasexceedingly springy and comfortable. Not yet thoroughly awake, Philipput out an exploring hand.
"Flexible willow shoots!" said he drowsily, "and a rush mat! Oberonhad nothing on me. Hello!" A dog romped joyfully through the flappingcanvas and barked. Philip's dream boat docked with a painful thud ofmemory. Wincing painfully he sat up.
"Easy, old top!" he advised ruefully, as the dog bounded against him."It would seem that we're an invalid with an infernal bump on the backof our head and a bandaged shoulder." He peered curiously through thetent flap and whistled softly. "By George, Nero," he added under hisbreath, "we're in the camp of my beautiful gypsy lady!"
There was a bucket of water by the tent flap. Philip painfully made ameager toilet, glanced doubtfully at the coarse cotton garment which byone of the mystifying events of the previous night had replaced thesilk shirt he had worn from Sherrill's, and emerged from the tent.
It was early morning. A fresh fire was crackling merrily about a potof coffee. Beyond through the trees a river of swollen amber laughedin the morning sunlight under a cloudless sky. The ridge of a distantwoodland was deeply golden, the rolling meadow lands of clover beyondthe river bright with iridescent dew. But the storm had left its trailof broken rush and grasses and the heavy boughs of the woodland drippedforgotten rain.
A girl presently emerged from the trees by the river and swung lightlyup the forest path, her scarlet sweater a vivid patch in the lesserlife and color all about her.
Diane swung lightly up the forest path.]
"Surely," she exclaimed, meeting Philip's glance with one of frank andvery pleasant concern, "surely you must be very weak! Why not stay inbed and let Johnny bring your breakfast to you?"
"Lord, no!" protested Philip, reddening. "I feel ever so much betterthan I look."
"I'm glad of that," said Diane, smiling. "You lost a lot of blood andbumped your head dreadfully on a jagged rock. Would you mind," herwonderful black eyes met his in a glance of frank inquiry, "would youmind--explaining? There was so much excitement and storm last nightthat we haven't the slightest notion what happened."
"Neither have I!" exclaimed Philip ruefully.
The girl's eyes widened.
"How very singular!" she said.
"It is indeed!" admitted Philip.
"You must be an exceedingly hapless young man!" she commented withserious disapproval. "I imagine your life must be a monotonous roundof disaster and excitement!"
"Fortuitously," owned Philip, "it's improving!"
Piqued by his irresistible good humor in adversity, Diane eyed himseverely.
"Are you so in the habit of being mysteriously stabbed in the shoulderwhenever it storms," she demanded with mild sarcasm, "that you canretain an altogether pernicious good humor?"
Philip's eyes glinted oddly.
"I'm a mere novice," he admitted lightly. "If my shoulder didn't throbso infernally," he added thoughtfully, "I'd lose all faith in theescapade--it's so weird and mysterious. A crackle--a lunge--a knife inthe dark--and behold! I am here, exceedingly grateful and hungrydespite the melodrama."
To which Diane, raising beautifully arched and wondering eyebrows, didnot reply. Philip, furtively marking the firm brown throat above thescarlet sweater, and the vivid gypsy color beneath the laughing dusk ofDiane's eyes, devoutly thanked his lucky star that Fate had seen fit tocurb the air of delicate hostility with which she had left him on theWestfall lake. Well, Emerson was right, decided Philip. There is aninevitable law of compensation. Even a knife in the dark hascompensations.
"Johnny," said Diane presently, briskly disinterring some bakedpotatoes and a baked fish from a cairn of hot stones covered withgrass, "is off examining last night's trail of melodrama. He's greatlyexcited. Let me pour you some coffee. I sincerely hope you're not toofastidious for tin cups?"
"A tin cup," said Philip with engaging candor, "has always been asecret ambition of mine. I once acquired one at somebody's springhut--er--circumstances compelled me to relinquish it. It was really avery nice cup too and very new and shiny. Since then, until now, mylife, alas! has been tin-cupless."
Diane carved the smoking fish in ominous silence.
"Do you know," she said at length, "I've felt once or twice that youranecdotes are too apt and--er--sparkling to be overburdened with truth.Your mechanician, for instance--"
Philip laughed and reddened. The mechanician, as a desperate means ofprolonging conversation, had served his purpose somewhat disastrously.
"Hum!" said he lamely.
"I shan't forget that mechanician!" said Diane decidedly.
"This now," vowed Philip uncomfortably, "is a _real_ fish!"
Diane laughed, a soft clear laugh that to Philip's prejudiced ears hadmore of music in it than the murmur of the river or the clear, sweetpiping of the woodland birds.
"It is," she agreed readily. "Johnny caught him in the river and Icooked him."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Philip, inspecting the morsel on his woodenplate with altered interest, "you don't--you can't mean it!"
"Why not?" inquired Diane with lifted eyebrows.
Philip didn't know and said so, but he glanced furtively at the girl bythe fire and marveled.
"Well," he said a little later with a sigh of utter content, "this isArcadia, isn't it!"
"It's a beautiful spot!" nodded Diane happily, glancing at the scarlettendrils of a wild grapevine flaming vividly in the sunlight among thetrees. There was yellow star grass along the forest path, she saidabsently, and yonder by the stump of a dead tree a patch of star mosswoven of myriad emerald shoots; the delicate splashes of purple hereand there in the forest carpet were wild geranium.
"There are alders by the river," mused Diane with shining eyes, "andmarsh marigolds; over there by a swampy hollow are a million violets,white and purple; and the ridge is thick with mountain laurel. Morecoffee?"
"Yes," said Philip. "It's delicious. I wonder," he added humbly, "ifyou'd peel this potato for me. A one cylinder activity is not aconspicuous success."
"I should have remembered your arm," said Diane quickly. "Does it painmuch?"
"A little," admitted Philip. "Do you know," he added guilelessly,"this is a spot for singularly vivid dreams. Last night, for instance,exceedingly gentle and skillful hands slit my shirt sleeve with a pairof scissors and bathed my shoulder with something that stungabominably, and somehow I fancied I was laid up in a hospital anddidn't have to fuss in the least, for my earthly affairs were in thehands of a nurse who was very deft and businesslike and beautiful. Icould seem to hear her giving orders in a cool, matter-of-fact way, andonce I thought there was some slight objection to leaving heralone--and she stamped her foot. Odd, wasn't it?"
"Must have been the doctor," said Diane, rising and adding wood to thefire. "Johnny went into the village for him."
"Hum!" said Philip doubtfully.
"He had very nice hands," went on Diane calmly. "They were veryskillful and gentle, as you say. Moreover, he was young andexceedingly good-looking."
"Hum!" said Philip caustically. "With all those beauty points, he mustbe a dub medically. What stung so?"
"Strong salt brine, piping hot," said the girl discouragingly. "It's awildwood remedy for washing wounds."
"Didn't the dub carry any
conventional antiseptics?"
"You are talking too much!" flashed Diane with sudden color. "Thewound is slight, but you bled a lot; and the doctor made particularreference to rest and quiet."
"Good Lord!" said Philip in deep disgust. "There's your prettyphysician for you! 'Rest and quiet' for a knife scratch. Like as nothe'll want me to take a year off to convalesce!"
"He left you another powder to take to-night," remarked Diane severely."Moreover, he said you must be very quiet to-day and he'd be in, in themorning, to see you."
Something jubilant laughed and sang in Philip's veins. A day inArcadia lay temptingly at his feet.
"Great Scott," he protested feebly. "I can't. I really can't, youknow--"
"You'll have to," said Diane with unsmiling composure. "The doctorsaid so."
"After all," mused Philip approvingly, "it's the young medical fellowswho have the finest perceptions. I _do_ need rest."
Off in the checkered shadows of the forest a crow cawed derisively.
"Did you like your shirt?" asked Diane with a distracting hint ofraillery under her long, black lashes.
"It's substantial," admitted Philip gratefully, "and democratic."
"You've still another," she said smiling. "Johnny bought them in thevillage."
"Johnny," said Philip gratefully, "is a trump."
Diane filled a kettle from a pail of water by the tree and smiled.
"There's a hammock over there by the tent," she said pleasantly."Johnny strung it up this morning. The trees are drying nicely andpresently I'm going to wander about the forest with a field glass and anotebook and you can take a nap."
Philip demurred. Finding his assistance inexorably refused, however,he repaired to the hammock and watched the camp of his lady grow neatand trim again.
On the bright embers of the camp fire, the kettle hummed.
"There now," said Philip suddenly, mindful of the hot, stingingwound-wash, "that is the noise I heard last night just after youstamped your foot and _before_ the doctor came."
"Nonsense!" said Diane briskly. "Your head's full of fancifulnotions. A bump like that on the back of your head is bound to tampersome with your common sense." And humming lightly she scalded thecoffeepot and tin cups and set them in the sun to dry. Philip's glancefollowed her, a winsome gypsy, brown and happy, to the green and whitevan, whence she presently appeared with a field glass and a notebook.
"Of course," she began, halting suddenly with heightened color, "itdoesn't matter in the least--but it does facilitate conversation attimes to know the name of one's guest--no matter how accidental andmysterious he may be."
"Philip!" he responded gravely but with laughing eyes. "It's reallyvery easy to remember." Diane stamped her foot.
"I _do_ think," she flashed indignantly, "that you are the most tryingyoung man I've ever met."
"I'm trying of course--" explained Philip, "trying to tell you my name.I greatly regret," he went on deferentially, "that there are a numberof exceptional circumstances which have resulted in the brief andsimple--Philip. For one thing, a bump which muddles a man's commonsense is very likely to muddle his memory. And so, for the life of me,I can't seem to conjure up a desirable form of address from you to meexcept Philip. And Philip," he added humbly, "isn't really such a badsort of name after all."
There was the whir and flash of a bird's wing in the forest the colorof Diane's cheek. An instant later the single vivid spot of crimson inPhilip's line of vision was the back of his lady's sweater.
Diane of the Green Van Page 11