CHAPTER LI
IN THE ADIRONDACKS
To the wild, out-of-the-world hunting lodge in the Adirondackwilderness of tree and lake and trout-haunted mountain stream which hadbeen part of Norman Westfall's heritage, came, one twilight of cloudand wind, Diane, tanned with the wind and sun of a year'swandering--and very tired.
Wild relief at Carl's tale of the jealous Indian, thoughts of Philip,of Carl, of Keela, of Ronador, all these, persistently haunting thegirl's harassed mind, had wearied her greatly. Moreover, Aunt Agathawas not restful; nor would she depart.
Wherefore, with the old habit when the voice of the forest called--whenschool and city and travel had palled and tortured--Diane had traveledfeverishly north with Aunt Agatha, and thence to the Adirondack lodgewhich had been her hermitage since early childhood and to which, by anearlier compact, Aunt Agatha might not follow.
She had telegraphed old Roger to meet her with the buckboard. Now, asthey drove up at twilight, Annie, his wife, stood in the cottagedoorway. Beyond among the rustling trees stood the log lodge of NormanWestfall, far enough away for solitude and near enough, as Aunt Agathafrequently recalled with comfort, to the cottage of the two oldservants for safety.
The lake stretched away to a dusk-dimmed shore set in a whispering lineof ghostly birches.
"There's wood in the fireplace, dearie!" said old Annie, patting thegirl's shoulder. "It's a wee bit chill yet, for all the summer oughtwell be here. And you've not run away to the old lodge to cook andkeep house and play gypsy this many a day!"
"No," said Diane, "I haven't." She spoke of the van and Johnny.
"Dear! Dear!" quavered Annie, raising wrinkled, wondering hands."Think of that now! And like you, too! And you grown so like yourfather, child, that I can't well keep my eyes off your face. And brownas a berry from the sun. I've set a bit of a lunch in the great roomyonder, dearie. You'll likely be too tired to-night to be a gypsy."
Old Roger, who had consigned the buckboard and horses to a tall awkwardcountry lad who had slouched forward from the shadows, hurried off tolight the fire in the lodge.
When Diane entered, the fire was crackling cheerfully in the greatfireplace and dancing in bright waves over the china and glass upon atable by the fire.
The old room, extending the entire width of the lodge and half itsgenerous depth, was much as it had been in the days of Norman Westfall.By the western wall stood the old piano. Uncovered rafters and aninner wall-lining of logs hinted nothing of the substantial plasterbehind it. It was a great room of homely comfort, subtly akin to theforest beyond its walls.
It was the old fashioned desk in the corner, however, upon whichDiane's thoughtful gaze rested as she ate her supper. The thought ofit had primarily inspired her coming. Surely the old desk, locked thismany a year, might hold some breath of the tragedy that had ghostliketrailed her footsteps. Ann Westfall had kept the key until her death.She had bravely put her brother's house in order at his tragic deathand transferred all the papers of value. The key hung now in a slidingpanel beneath the ledge of the desk. The spirit which had kept the oldroom unchanged, even to the faded books of Orientalism and the oldpictures strangely mellowed, had led to the hiding of the key away fromvandal fingers.
Once Diane herself had unlocked the desk and peered timidly within.She remembered now the faultless order of the few dry, uninterestingpapers, an ink well made of the skull of a tiny monkey, a bamboo pen, ahalf-finished manuscript of wild adventure in some out-of-the-worldspot in the South Pacific. There had been nothing more. But the deskwas one of intricate drawers and panels.
With a sudden distaste for the food before her, Diane pushed the littletable back, lighted a small lamp and crossed to her father's desk. Sheunlocked it with nervous fingers. The monkey skull, the bamboo pen,the few irrelevant papers were all as she remembered them.
Diane glanced hurriedly over the scribbled manuscript of adventure witha wild, choking sensation in her throat. There was no mention of theIndian wife. Hurriedly she opened each tiny drawer and panel. Theywere for the most part empty. Only in one, a small drawer within adrawer, lay a faded packet of letters directed to Ann Westfall in thehand that had penned the manuscript--Norman Westfall's.
Diane of the Green Van Page 51
