The Associate Hermits
by Frank R. Stockton · English · Gutenberg #26895 · 382,881 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Associate Hermits
Author: Frank R. Stockton
Illustrator: A. B. Frost
Release date: October 12, 2008 [eBook #26895]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26895
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[Illustration: THE SUPPER [Page 37]]
THE
ASSOCIATE HERMITS
By
Frank R. Stockton
Author of
"The Great Stone of Sardis"
With Illustrations by A. B. Frost
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS. A Novel.
Illustrated by Peter Newell. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1 50.
"The Great Stone of Sardis" is as queer and preposterous as
can be imagined, yet as plausible and real-seeming as a legal
document.... There is a treat in the book.--_Independent_, N. Y.
A new and worthy example of Stockton's kindly, wholesome,
original, and inexhaustible humor.--_Syracuse Post._
Narrated with a seriousness that gives the adventures a semblance
of matters of fact. Through the narrative runs a love interest which
Mr. Stockton manages with great skill.--_Washington Post._
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Dawn of a Wedding-journey 1
II. Enter Margery 7
III. Sadler's 15
IV. A Cataract of Information 23
V. Camp Rob 35
VI. Camp Roy 42
VII. A Stranger 52
VIII. The Bishop's Tale 63
IX. Matlack's Three Troubles 74
X. A Ladies' Day in Camp 82
XI. Margery Takes the Oars 90
XII. The Bishop Engages the Attention of the Guides 100
XIII. The World Goes Wrong with Mr. Raybold 105
XIV. The Assertion of Individuality 113
XV. A Net of Cobwebs to Cage a Lion 123
XVI. A Man who Feels Himself a Man 135
XVII. Mrs. Perkenpine Asserts Her Individuality 143
XVIII. The Hermits Associate 153
XIX. Margery's Breakfast 161
XX. Martin Asserts His Individuality 173
XXI. The Individuality of Peter Sadler 185
XXII. A Tranquillizing Breeze and a Hot Wind 194
XXIII. Mrs. Perkenpine Finds out Things about Herself 205
XXIV. A Dissolving Audience 212
XXV. A Moonlight Interview 220
XXVI. An Elopement 229
XXVII. Mrs. Perkenpine Delights the Bishop 239
XXVIII. The Hermits Continue to Favor Association 248
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE SUPPER Frontispiece
"'CAN THIS BE SADLER'S?'" 16
"'THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK'" 54
"A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING" 80
"BUT THE BISHOP KNEW BETTER" 98
"WITH A GREAT HEAVE SENT HIM OUT INTO THE WATER" 102
"'WHERE ARE ALL OUR FRIENDS?'" 150
"'HAVEN'T TRIED IT'" 202
"'IF THEY AIN'T THE CAMP ROBBERS!'" 232
THE ASSOCIATE HERMITS
CHAPTER I
THE DAWN OF A WEDDING-JOURNEY
Mr. and Mrs. Hector Archibald were prosperous and happy dwellers in a
suburb of one of our large towns. Fortune had favored them in many
ways--in health and in a good average happiness. They had reached early
middle age, and their daughter Kate, their only child, had grown up to be
a beautiful and good young woman, and was on the point of marrying a young
lawyer--Rodney Bringhurst by name--in every way worthy of her.
Hector Archibald was a little man, with small bright eyes, and hair
slightly touched with gray and very much inclined to curl. His disposition
was lively. He had a strong liking for cheerful occurrences, and was
always willing to do his part in the bringing about of such events.
Novelty had a charm for him. He was not bound by precedence and tradition,
and if he had found himself at a dinner which began with coffee and ended
with oysters on the half-shell, he would have given the unusual meal a
most animated consideration, although he might have utterly withheld any
subsequent approbation. As a general thing, he revolved in an orbit where
one might always be able to find him, were the proper calculations made.
But if any one drew a tangent for him, and its direction seemed suitable
and interesting, he was perfectly willing to fly off on it.
The disposition of Mrs. Hector Archibald was different. She was born to be
guided by customs, fashions, and forms. She believed it was the duty of a
married woman to make her home happy, and she did it. But she also
believed that in the best domestic circles there were rules and usages for
domestic happiness which would apply to every domestic condition and
contingency. It frequently troubled her, however, to find that certain
customs, forms, or usages of domestic society had changed, and being of a
conservative turn of mind, it was difficult for her to adapt herself to
these changes. But, thoroughly loyal to the idea that what was done by
people she loved and people she respected ought also to be done by her,
she earnestly strove to fit herself to new conditions, especially when she
saw that by not doing so she would be out of touch with her family and her
friends.
Now of course the wedding of their daughter was the only thing in the
world that seemed of real importance to Mr. and Mrs. Archibald, and for
this all preparations and plans had been agreed upon and made with great
good-will and harmony, excepting one thing, and that was the wedding-trip.
Strange to say, the young people did not wish to take a wedding-trip. They
believed that this old-fashioned custom was unnecessary, troublesome,
commonplace, and stupid. In the gardens and grounds of the Archibald
mansion, and in the beautiful surrounding country, they had loved each
other as lovers, and among these scenes they wished to begin to love each
other as a married couple. Why should such distasteful and unpleasant
ingredients as railroad-cars, steamboats, and hotels be dashed into the
pleasing mixture of their new lives? It had been arranged that for a year
or two, at least, they should live in Kate's dear old home, and why should
they not immediately begin that life there?
Mr. Archibald did not favor this plan, and his wife was strongly opposed
to it. A wedding without a wedding-trip ought not to be thought of.
"During the honey-moon a young couple should live for each other, with
each other, apart from the rest of the world. It is a beautiful custom,
which should not be rudely trampled upon," said Mrs. Archibald.
But although Mrs. Archibald cherished a belief that she ought to conform
her ideas to the domestic customs of the day, her daughter Kate cherished
the belief that the domestic customs of the day ought to conform
themselves to her ideas.
"Of course we should like to be alone in the honey-moon," she exclaimed.
"We don't object to that; and if there must be a wedding-journey, you and
father can take it and we will stay here. Here are servants, books, things
to eat, and everything our hearts can desire, and here we would really
feel as if we were beginning life as man and wife. As for you two, you
both need a vacation, and nothing could be more perfectly appropriate and
more delightful to everybody than that you should take our wedding-trip.
We don't want it; we will make it a present to you. Take it and be happy,
and leave us here to be happy. People have done this sort of thing before,
so that it is not absolutely wild and unheard of."
Mr. Archibald welcomed this plan with open arms, and hugged it and his
daughter to his breast. It suited him admirably, and he declared that all
business and engagements of every kind should be set aside, and that he
would be ready to start on the wedding-journey with Mrs. Archibald the
moment the ceremony should be completed.
"You will wait until the reception is over, father?" said Kate, laughing.
"Yes," said he, "I will wait for that."
This novel proposition sent a chill through every fibre of Mrs.
Archibald's physical organism. At first she did not exactly comprehend it,
but when she did, the chills increased. When she had recovered herself a
little she began to make objections. This was easy enough, for they
crowded into her mind like sheep into a pen; but every objection, as she
brought it forth, was ruthlessly set aside or crushed to earth by her
daughter or her husband, assisted by her expectant son-in-law, of whom she
declared she never would have believed such a thing had she been told it.
The discussion ended, of course, by Mrs. Archibald agreeing to go on this
absurd wedding-journey. But the good lady's mental troubles were not over
when she had given her consent. As this scheme had been devised by those
dearest to her on earth, and as it was certain, these dearest persons
assured her, to meet with the approbation of all people of advanced
thought--at least of those whose thought had advanced far enough to make
it worthy of their consideration--she felt that in doing her part she
ought to do it honestly and with her whole heart; and at her time of life,
to act as a proxy for a young bride by taking a wedding-journey in that
young bride's place was a very difficult thing for Mrs. Archibald to do
honestly and with her whole heart. But she would try to do it. Whatever
else happened, her family must be kept happy, and it should never be said
of her that she hung like a millstone around the combined neck of that
family when it was unitedly climbing towards altitudes of felicity, which,
although she was not able to discern them, must exist, since that fact had
been so earnestly insisted upon by Mr. Archibald, Kate, and Rodney
Bringhurst.
Thus was this exceptional hymeneal performance decided upon, and at eleven
o'clock on Wednesday, the 6th of June, the marriage service was performed.
At noon the guests sat down to breakfast, and at two o'clock that
afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Hector Archibald departed on the wedding-trip,
leaving behind Mr. and Mrs. Bringhurst at home with each other, and "not
at home" to the world.
CHAPTER II
ENTER MARGERY
At four o'clock on the afternoon of June 6th Mr. and Mrs. Hector Archibald
arrived at a family hotel in the capital of their state. Where they should
go from there had not been decided upon. Nothing in regard to their
wedding-journey had been decided upon except that they were to return to
their home on the 6th of July of that year, and not before. It would have
been impossible, with their minds filled with bridal arrangements, for
them to make plans for their journey. But at this first stopping-place,
where they were free from all responsibility and interruptions, they
could, at their leisure, decide where they should go, how they should go,
and what they should do when they got there.
After the unrest and turmoil of their own home during the past few weeks,
the quiet and repose of this city hotel were delightful. That evening they
went to the theatre, and after the performance they had a little supper at
a restaurant.
"People may not think we are a newly married pair," said Mr. Archibald, as
he poured out a glass of wine for his wife, "but it is not impossible that
they may see we know how to enjoy ourselves quite as much as if we were."
The next morning Mr. Archibald procured a number of railroad maps,
time-tables, circulars of steamboat excursions, advertisements of mountain
retreats and sea-side resorts, and he and his wife sat down to study
these, and to decide upon a destination and a route. After an hour or two
of indeterminate examination Mr. Archibald declared himself a little
tired, and proposed that they should take a recess from their labors and
go and call upon their old friends, the Stanley Dearborns.
"People on wedding-tours do not make calls," said Mrs. Archibald.
"That may be true," said her husband, "in ordinary cases, and although I
do not care to announce to everybody the peculiarities of the expedition
which we have undertaken, I do not mind in the least telling the Stanley
Dearborns all about it. Stanley himself would not appreciate it; he would
consider it absurd; but then he is not at home at this time of day, and
Mrs. Dearborn is just the woman to enjoy a reform movement of this sort.
Besides, she is full of ideas about everything, and she may propose some
good place for us to go to."
Mrs. Dearborn was at home, and very glad to see the Archibalds. She was a
woman whose soul was in touch with the higher education of women--with
female suffrage, the emancipation of the enslaved mind wherever it might
be found, and with progress generally. She was a member of many societies,
belonged to committees without end, wrote reports and minutes by day and
by night, and was one of that ever-increasing class of good people who
continually walk forward in order that their weight may help the world to
turn over.
In spite of her principles and the advanced position of her thought, Mrs.
Dearborn actually leaned back in her chair and laughed heartily when she
learned what sort of a journey the Archibalds were taking. In this
merriment Mr. Archibald joined with great glee.
"Ever since I left home," he said, "I have wanted to have a chance for a
good laugh at this trip we are taking. It is the most delightful joke I
have ever known."
Mrs. Archibald could not help smiling, but her brow was clouded. "If this
expedition is merely a joke," she said, "I do not think we should have
undertaken it; but if it is an earnest assertion of our belief that there
should be a change in the customs of society, then I think we should take
it seriously, and I see nothing to laugh at."
"My dear Harriet," said Mrs. Dearborn, "we can be good and glad at the
same time; and that is what I am, I am sure. What you are doing is the
initiation of one of the most worthy reforms of the day, and if it should
have an effect in breaking up that wretched custom of the bridal tramp,
which is considered so necessary in this country, society should rise up
and call you blessed. But it is funny, for all that. I am sure that the
first woman who dared to go without crinoline was very funny, and when I
heard of a hospital for cats I could not help laughing; but I believed in
it, and worked for it. And now where are you going?"
"That is what we want to talk to you about," said Mr. Archibald; and for
half an hour they talked about it.
At the end of that time it was decided that the mountains were better than
the sea or than a quiet lowland nook; and Mrs. Dearborn strongly
recommended Sadler's, where she and her husband had spent a part of a
summer a few years before.
"We camped out," said she, "and had a fine time. You can camp out at
Sadler's more easily and satisfactorily than anywhere else in the world."
Camping suited Mr. Archibald admirably, and, to his surprise, his wife
said she might like it very well.
"If people are going to laugh at us," she said, "when they find out we are
on a wedding-journey--and they will be sure to find it out in some way or
other--I think the fewer people we mingle with the better. I do not think
I shall like camping altogether, but I know it is healthful, and I suppose
I ought to get used to it. It would be dreadfully lonely for just Mr.
Archibald and me, but I suppose we can take some one with us to guide and
cook."
"My dear Harriet," said Mrs. Dearborn, "if you are at Sadler's, you can go
into any sort of camp you please. I will tell you all about Sadler's.
Sadler is a man of progress. His hotel or inn is on the very edge of the
forest country, and away from all the centres of resort. He calls his
place the terminal link of public travel in that direction. When you leave
him you travel privately in any way you like. He has established what he
has named a bureau of camping, and he furnishes his patrons with any sort
of a camp they may desire. If the party is few in number and of a timid
disposition, they can have a camp within shouting distance of his house.
If they are brave and adventurous, he will send them out into the depths
of the forest. If they like water, he locates them by the shores of a
lake. If climbing is their passion, he puts them at the foot of a
mountain. Those who want to hunt can do so, and those who dislike
fire-arms are placed in a camp where the popping of guns is never heard.
He provides tents, guides, provisions, and even dangers and sensations."
"Safety is what I want," interrupted Mrs. Archibald.
"And that he furnishes," said the other, "for those who desire it."
"Sadler is the man for me!" cried Mr. Archibald. "We will go to him, look
over his list of camps, and select one to suit us."
"By-the-way," said Mrs. Dearborn, "a thought has struck me. How would you
like to take Margery with you?"
"Margery!" exclaimed Mr. Archibald. "That delightful little girl whom I
taught to ride a tricycle when you were visiting us? I would like it ever
so much."
It struck Mrs. Archibald that people on bridal trips did not generally
take children or young girls with them, but it also struck her that if
they were going into camp it might be pleasant and in many ways
advantageous to have some one of her own sex with her; but she had no time
to formulate these advantages in her mind before Mrs. Dearborn explained
in full.
"Since Mr. Dearborn and I came home from Sadler's," she said, "Margery has
been perfectly wild to go there, and as soon as the leaves began to bud in
the parks she began to talk about it. We saw no possible chance of her
going there, for her father is too busy to leave home for any length of
time this season, and I cannot go to the mountains this year, for I must
visit my sister, who is not well, and there are three summer conventions
that I am obliged to attend. But if you could take her with you, I do not
believe she would trouble you in the least, and you would give her great
pleasure. Moreover, to speak practically, which I think we always ought to
do, it would not be a bad thing on the score of economy, for things are
always proportionately cheaper for three people in a camp than for two."
A great many advantages of female companionship now began to creep into
Mrs. Archibald's mind: if her husband should take it into his head to go
out and hunt at night by the light of a torch; if there should be
thunder-storms, and he away with the guide; if he should want to go off
and talk to Indians or trappers, and he always did want to go off and talk
to people of every class--it would be very pleasant to have even Margery
Dearborn with her. So she consented with great good-will to her friend's
proposition, and Mrs. Dearborn was much pleased and thankful.
"Margery is a true creature of impulse," she said; "that is really her
predominating characteristic, and she will want to bound to the ceiling
when she hears she is to go to Sadler's. She is not at home now, but she
will be in very soon. You must take luncheon with us."
About a quarter of an hour after that Margery Dearborn came home. She was
very glad indeed to see the Archibalds, whom she remembered as the kindest
of people; and when she heard they were going to take her to Sadler's, she
gave a scream of delight and threw herself upon Mrs. Archibald's neck.
"You are an angel," she cried, "an angel of blessedness, my dear Aunt
Harriet! Don't you remember, I used to call you that? Won't you let me
call you so still?" And without waiting for an answer, she rushed to Mr.
Archibald, with outstretched hands. "Dear Uncle Archibald, you are just as
good as ever, I see. You know, I wouldn't call you Uncle Hector, because
hectoring meant scolding, which never had anything to do with you.
Sadler's! Oh, when do we start?"
"To-morrow is Saturday," replied Mr. Archibald; "we must get together some
things we will need for camp-life, and we can start on Monday."
When the visitors were left to themselves for a few moments, Mr. Archibald
said to his wife, "Harriet, I am astounded. This girl, who used to ride
bareback and jump over fences, is a young lady now, and a handsome one,
too. She is quite a different person from the girl I agreed to take with
us."
"Mr. Archibald," said his wife, "you never can remember that in this world
people of all ages grow older. She was fourteen when she was visiting us,
and that was four years ago, so of course she is a young lady."
"No," he answered, "I don't feel that I am growing any older, and I don't
see that you are, and so I totally forget that proclivity in other people.
But what do you think now? Can we take this young woman with us to camp?
Will she not be a dreadful drag?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Archibald, "I much prefer the young lady to the girl.
I don't want to be the only woman in camp, and the nearer the other woman
is to my age the better."
"All right," said Mr. Archibald; "if you are satisfied, I am; and, if she
will agree to it, we will add our ages for the time being, and divide by
three, and then we will all stand on a level."
CHAPTER III
SADLER'S
It was in the afternoon of Monday, the 11th of June, when Mr. and Mrs.
Archibald, accompanied by Miss Margery Dearborn, arrived at Sadler's, and
with feelings of relief alighted from the cramped stage-coach which had
brought them eight miles from the railroad station.
"Can this be Sadler's?" said Mr. Archibald, in a tone of surprise.
"Of course it must be," said his wife, "since they brought us here."
"It certainly is the place," said Margery, "for there is the name over
that door."
"How do you feel about it?" said Mr. Archibald to his wife.
"I feel very well about it," said she. "Why shouldn't I?"
"How do you feel about it?" he asked of the younger lady.
"Well," she answered, "I don't exactly understand it. I had visions of
forests and wilds and tumbling mountain streams and a general air of
primevalism, and I am surprised to see this fine hotel with piazzas, and
croquet-grounds, and tennis-courts, and gravelled walks, and babies in
their carriages, and elderly ladies carrying sun-shades."
"But it seems to me that there is a forest behind it," said Mr.
Archibald.
"Yes," replied Margery, a little dolefully, "it has that to back it up."
"Don't let us stand here at the bottom of the steps talking," said Mrs.
Archibald. "I must say I am very agreeably surprised."
In the wide hall which ran through the middle of the hotel, and not far
from the clerk's desk, there sat a large, handsome man, a little past
middle age, who, in a hearty voice, greeted the visitors as they entered,
but without rising from his chair. This was Peter Sadler, the owner of the
hotel, the legal owner of a great deal of the neighboring country, and the
actual ruler of more of said country than could be easily marked out upon
a map or stated in surveyors' terms.
In fact, Peter Sadler, was king of that portion of the vast district of
mountain and forest which could be reached in a day's journey in any
direction. If he had wished to extend his domain to points at a greater
distance than this he would have done so, but so far he was satisfied with
the rights he had asserted. He ruled supreme in that region because he had
lived longer in the vicinity than any other white man, because he had a
powerful will which did not brook opposition, and because there was no one
to oppose him.
[Illustration: "'CAN THIS BE SADLER'S?'"]
On the arable land which lay outside of the forest, and which really
belonged to him, there were the houses of the men who farmed his fields,
and on the outskirts of the woods were scattered here and there the cabins
of the hunters and guides he employed, and these men knew no law but his
will. Of course the laws of the State covered the district, but such
promulgation and enforcement of these as he might consider necessary were
generally left to Peter Sadler, and as to his own laws, he was always
there to see that these were observed.
His guests submitted themselves to his will, or they left his hotel very
soon. To people of discernment and judgment it was not difficult to submit
to the will of this full-bearded, broad-chested man, who knew so much
better than they did what they ought to do if they wanted to get all the
good out of Sadler's which they were capable of assimilating.
This man, who sat all day in a big rolling-chair, and who knew everything
that was going on in the hotel, the farm, and the forest about him, had
been a hunter and a guide in his youth, an Indian-fighter in later years,
and when he had been wounded in both legs, so that it was impossible for
him ever to walk again, he came back to the scenes of his youth and
established an inn for sportsmen--a poor little house at first, which grew
and grew and grew, until it was the large, well-kept hotel so widely known
by his name.
After dinner, at which meal they were waited upon by women, and not by men
in evening-dress as Margery had begun to fear, Mr. Archibald sought Peter
Sadler and made known to him the surprise of his party at finding
themselves in this fine hotel.
"What did you expect?" asked Peter, eying him from head to foot.
"From what we had heard," replied the other, "we supposed we should find
some sort of a preparatory camping-ground in the woods, from which we
could go out and have a camp of our own."
"That's just what you have found," said Sadler. "In this house you prepare
to camp, if you need preparation. If any man, woman, or child comes here
and wants to go out to camp, and I see that they are sickly or weak or in
any way not fit to live in the woods, I don't let them go one step until
they are fit for it. The air and the food and the water they get here will
make them fit, if anything will do it, and if these three things don't set
them up they simply have to go back where they came from. They can't go
into camp from this house. But if they fancy this hotel--and there isn't
any reason why anybody shouldn't fancy it--they can stay here as long as
they like, and I'll take care of them. Now, sir, if you want to go into
camp, the first thing for you to do is to bring your family here and let
me take a look at them. I've seen them, of course, but I haven't made up
my mind yet whether they are the right sort for camp life. As for you, I
think you will do. There isn't much of you, but you look tough."
Mr. Archibald laughed. "That's good rough talk," he said, "and smacks more
of camp life than anything I have noticed here. I will go and bring my
wife and Miss Dearborn."
"There is another reason why I want to see them," said the bluff Peter.
"As you are bent on camping, you'll like to choose a camp, and when
anything of that kind is on hand I want to talk to the whole party. I
don't care to settle the business with one of them, and then have him come
back and say that what has been agreed upon don't suit the others. I want
a full meeting or no session."
When Mr. Archibald returned with his wife and Margery, he found Peter
Sadler had rolled his chair up to a large circular table at the back of
the hall, on which was spread a map of the forest. He greeted the ladies
in a loud voice and with a cheery smile.
"And so you want to go camping, do you?" said he. "Sit down and let us
talk it over. I think the young lady is all right. She looks spry enough,
and I expect she could eat pine-cones like a squirrel if she was hungry
and had nothing else. As for you, madam, you don't appear as if anything
in particular was the matter with you, and I should think you could stand
a Number Three camp well enough, and be all the better for a week or two
of it."
"What is a Number Three camp?" asked Margery, before the astonished Mrs.
Archibald could speak.
"Well," said Sadler, "it is a camp with a good deal of comfort in it. Our
Number One camps are pretty rough. They are for hunters and scientific
people. We give them game enough in season, and some bare places where
they can make fires and stretch a bit of canvas. That is all they want, to
have a truly good time. That is the best camp of all, I think. Number Two
camps are generally for fishermen. They always want a chance for pretty
good living when they are out in the woods. They stay in camp in the
evenings, and like to sit around and have a good time. Number Threes are
the best camps we put families into, so you see, madam, I'm rating you
pretty high. There's always a log-cabin in these camps, with cots and
straw mattresses and plenty of traps for cooking. And, more than that,
there is a chance for people who don't tramp or fish to do things, such as
walking or boating, according to circumstances. There's one of our camps
has a croquet-ground."
"Oh, we don't want that!" cried Margery, "it would simply ruin every
illusion that is left to me."
"Glad to hear that," said Peter. "If you want to play croquet, stay at the
hotel; that's what I say. Now, then, here are the camps, and there's
plenty of them to choose from. You've come in a good time, for the season
isn't fairly begun yet. Next month every camp will be full, with the hotel
crowded with people waiting for their turns."
"What we want," said Margery, rising and looking over the map, "is the
wildest Number Three you have."
"Oh, ho!" said Peter. "Not so fast, miss; perhaps we'll wait and see what
this lady has to say first. If I'm not mistaken, madam, I think you're
inclined the other way, and I don't put people into camps that they will
be wanting to leave after the first rainy day. Now let me show you what
I've got. Here is one, four hours' walk, horses for women, with a rocky
stream through the middle of it."
"That is grand!" cried Margery. "Is it really in the woods?"
"Now let me do the talking," said Peter. "They are all in the woods; we
don't make camps in pasture-fields. Even the Number Sevens, where the
meals are sent to the campers from the hotel, and they have bath-tubs, are
in the woods. Now here is another one, about three miles west from the one
I just showed you, but the same distance from here. This, you see, is on
the shore of a lake, with fishing, boating, and bathing, if you can stand
cold water."
"Glorious!" cried Margery. "That is exactly what we want. A lake will be
simply heavenly!"
"Everything seems to suit you, miss," said Peter, "just as soon as you
hear of it. But suppose we consider more of them before you choose. Some
two miles north of here, in the thickest of the forest, in a clearing that
I made, there is a small camp that strikes the fancy of some people. There
is a little stream there and it has fish in it too, and it runs through
one corner of the log-cabin, so there are seven or eight feet of the
stream inside the house, and on rainy days you can sit there and fish; and
some people like to go to sleep with the running water gurgling close to
them where they can hear it when they are in bed. Then there's an owl to
this camp. The men heard him there when they were making the clearing, and
he's never left the spot. Some people who were out there said they never
felt as much away from the world as they did listening to that little
stream gurgling and that owl hooting."
"I believe," exclaimed Margery, "that in a place like that I could write
poetry!"
"It would give me the rheumatism and the blues," said Mrs. Archibald, upon
which Peter Sadler exclaimed,
"That settles that. Now then, here is another."
Several other camps were considered, but it was the general conclusion
that the one by the lake was the most desirable. It had a good cabin with
three rooms, with plenty of open space, near by, for the tents of the
guides; there was a boat which belonged to the camp, and in every way it
seemed so suitable that Mr. Archibald secured it. He thought the price was
rather high, but as it included guides, provisions, fishing-tackle, and in
fact everything needed, he considered that although it might cost as much
as lodgings in a city hotel, they would get more good out of it.
"Has this camp any name?" asked the enthusiastic Margery, in the course of
the conference.
"That's about your twenty-seventh question, miss," said Peter, "but it's
one I can answer. Yes, it's got a name. It's called Camp Rob."
"Oh!" ejaculated Margery, in a disappointed tone. "What a name!"
"Yes," said Peter, "it isn't much of a name. The first people who went out
there named it that, and it stuck to it, and it's all it's got. Camps are
like horses--we've got to tell them apart, and so we give them names, and
that's Camp Rob."
CHAPTER IV
A CATARACT OF INFORMATION
Peter Sadler would have been glad to have the Archibald party stay at his
hotel for a few days, and Mrs. Archibald would have been perfectly
satisfied to remain there until they were ready to return to their own
house, but her husband and Margery were impatient to be in the woods, and
it was therefore decided to start for the camp the next day. Peter Sadler
was a man of system, and his arrangements were made promptly and rapidly.
"You've got to have a guide," said he, "and another man to help him, and I
think I'll give you Phil Matlack. Phil is an old hand at the business, and
if you don't know what you want, he'll tell you. If you are in Phil's
hands, you needn't be afraid anything will happen to you. Whatever you
want, ask him for it, and ten to one he'll have it, whether it's
information or fishhooks. I tell you again, you're lucky to be here early
and get the best of everything. Camp Rob with Phil Matlack will stand at a
premium in three or four weeks from now."
That evening after supper Mr. Archibald lighted a cigar and went out into
the grounds in front of the hotel, where he was presently joined by his
wife.
"Where is Margery?" asked he.
"She is in her room," replied Mrs. Archibald, "but she called to me that
she would be down directly."
In about ten minutes down came Margery and floated out upon the lawn. She
was dressed in white, with flowers in her hair, and she was more charming,
Mr. Archibald said, as she approached, than even the sunset sky.
"You should not speak in that way of works of nature," said his wife.
"Isn't she a work of nature?" he asked.
"Not altogether," was the wise reply. "Why did you dress yourself in that
fashion?" she asked Margery. "I did not suppose you would bring such a
fine gown, as we started out to go into camp. And even in this hotel a
travelling-suit is good enough for any one."
"Oh, I tucked this into one of my bags," replied Margery. "I always like
to have something nice to fall back upon. Don't you want to take a little
stroll, Aunt Harriet?"
Mr. Archibald leaned back in his garden-chair and slowly puffed his cigar,
and as he puffed he took his eyes from the sunset sky and watched his wife
and Margery.
A little beyond them, as they walked, sat two elderly ladies on a bench,
wearing shawls, and near by stood a girl in a short dress, with no hat on,
and a long plait down her back. A little farther on was a tennis-court,
and four people, apparently young, were playing tennis. There were two
men, and neither of them wore a tennis-suit. One was attired as a
bicyclist, and the other wore ordinary summer clothes. The young women
were dressed in dark-blue flannel and little round hats, which suggested
to Mr. Archibald the deck of a yacht.
Near the hotel was an elderly gentleman walking up and down by himself,
and on the piazza were the rest of the guests he had seen at the table;
not very many of them, for it was early in the season.
Mr. Archibald now turned his eyes again to the sky. It was still
beautiful, although its colors were fading, and after a time he looked
back towards his wife. She was now talking to the two elderly ladies on
the bench, and Margery was engaged in conversation with the girl with the
plait down her back.
"When I finish my cigar," thought Mr. Archibald, "I will go myself and
take a stroll." And it struck him that he might talk to the old gentleman,
who was still walking up and down in front of the hotel. After
contemplating the tops of some forest trees against the greenish-yellow of
the middle sky, he turned his eyes again towards his wife, and found that
the two elderly ladies had made room for her on the bench, that the
tennis-game had ceased, and that one of the girls in blue flannel had
joined this group and was talking to Margery.
In a few moments all the ladies on the bench rose, and Mrs. Archibald and
one of them walked slowly towards an opening in the woods. The other lady
followed with the little girl, and Margery and the young woman in blue
walked in the same direction, but not in company with the rest of the
party. The two young men, with the other tennis-player between them,
walked over from the tennis-court and joined the first group, and they all
stopped just as they reached the woods. There they stood and began talking
to each other, after which one of the young men and the young woman
approached a large tree, and he poked with a stick into what was probably
a hole near its roots, and Mr. Archibald supposed that the discussion
concerned a snake-hole or a hornets' nest. Then Margery and the other
young woman came up, and they looked at the hole. Now the whole company
walked into the woods and disappeared. In about ten minutes Mr. Archibald
finished his cigar and was thinking of following his wife and Margery,
when the two elderly ladies and Mrs. Archibald came out into the open and
walked towards the hotel. Then came the little girl, running very fast as
she passed the tree with the hole near its roots. In a few minutes Mrs.
Archibald stopped and looked back towards the woods; then she walked a
little way in that direction, leaving her companions to go to the hotel.
Now the young man in the bicycle suit emerged from the woods, with a girl
in dark-blue flannel on each side of him.
"Upon my word!" exclaimed Mr. Archibald, and rising to his feet, advanced
towards his wife; but before he reached her, Margery emerged from the wood
road, escorted by the young man in the summer suit.
"Upon my word," Mr. Archibald remarked, this time to his wife, "that ward
of ours is not given to wasting time."
"It seems so, truly," said she, "and I think her mother was right when she
called her a creature of impulse. Let us wait here until they come up. We
must all go in; it is getting chilly."
In a few minutes Margery and the young man had reached them.
"Thank you very much," said this creature of impulse to her escort. "My
uncle and aunt will take care of me now. Aunt Harriet and Uncle Archibald,
this is Mr. Clyde. He saw a great snake go into a hole over there just
before supper-time, and I think we ought all to be very careful how we
pass that way."
"I don't think there is very much danger after nightfall," said Mr. Clyde,
who was a pleasant youth with brown hair, "and to-morrow I'll see if I can
kill him. It's a bad place for a snake to have a hole, just where ladies
would be apt to take their walks."
"I don't think the snake will trouble us much," said Mrs. Archibald, "for
we leave to-morrow. Still, it would be a good thing to kill it."
After this there were a few remarks made about snakes, and then Mr. Clyde
bade them good-evening.
"How in the world, Margery," said Mrs. Archibald, "did you get acquainted
so quickly with that young man--and who is he?"
"Oh, it all happened quite naturally," said she. "As we turned to go out
of the woods he was the gentleman nearest to me, and so of course he came
with me. Those two girls are sisters, and their name is Dodworth. They
introduced Mr. Clyde and the other gentleman, Mr. Raybold, to me. But that
was after you had been talking to Mrs. Dodworth, their mother, who is Mr.
Raybold's aunt. The other lady, with the shawl on, is Mrs. Henderson,
and--would you believe it?--she's grandmother to that girl in the short
dress! She doesn't begin to look old enough. The Dodworths don't go into
camp at all, but expect to stay here for two weeks longer, and then they
go to the sea-shore. Mrs. Henderson leaves day after to-morrow.
"Mr. Clyde and his friend live in Boston. They are both just beginning to
practise law, though Mr. Clyde says that Mr. Raybold would rather be an
actor, but his family objects. The old gentleman who is walking up and
down in front of the hotel has heart-disease, some people say--but that is
not certain. He stayed here all last summer, and perhaps he will this
year. In two weeks hardly any of the people now in this hotel will be
here. One family is going into camp when the father and two sons come on
to join them, and the rest are going to the sea-shore, except one lady.
You may have noticed her--the one with a dark-purple dress and a little
purple cap. She's a school-teacher, and she will spend the rest of the
summer with her sister in Pennsylvania.
"That man Phil Matlack, who is going with us to-morrow, is quite a
character, and I expect I shall like him awfully. They say that about five
years ago he killed a man who made an attack on him in the woods, but he
was never tried for it, nor was anything whatever done to him, because Mr.
Sadler said he was right, and he would not have any nonsense about it.
There are people about here who believe that Phil Matlack would fight a
bear single-handed if it happened to be necessary. Mr. Sadler would do it
himself if he could walk. Nobody knows how many men he killed when he was
fighting Indians; and, would you believe it? his wife is a plain, little,
quiet woman, who lives in some part of the hotel where nobody ever sees
her, because she is rather bashful and dislikes company.
"The other person who is going with us is not very much more than a boy,
though they say he is very strong and a good hunter. His name is Martin
Sanders, and I forgot to say that the old gentleman with the heart-disease
is named Parker.
"It's generally thought that Phil Matlack would rather have some one else
than Martin Sanders to go with him, because he says Martin knows too much.
The fact is that Martin is well educated, and could have gone into some
good business, but he was so fond of the woods that he gave up everything
to come out here and learn guiding. You know we were told that our camp in
the woods has three rooms in it? Well, it really has four, for there was
an artist there last year who built a little room for a studio for rainy
days. I expect Mr. Sadler forgot that, or didn't think it worth counting.
There are no snakes at all where we are going to camp, but two miles
farther on there are lots of them."
"Over the brink of Niagara," interjected Mr. Archibald, "they say eighteen
million cubic feet of water pour every minute. Where on earth, Margery,
did you fill your mind with all that information?"
"I got it from those two Dodworth girls and Mr. Clyde," said she. "Mr.
Raybold told me some things, too, but mostly about his bicycle. He feels
badly about it, because he brought it here, and now he finds there is no
place to use it. I should think he ought to have known that the primeval
forest isn't any place for a bicycle."
"Mr. Archibald," said Mrs. Archibald, when they had retired to their room,
"I did not agree with you when you wished we could have started for camp
to-day, but now I am quite of your mind."
Tuesday was fine, and preparations were made for the Archibald party to
start for their camp after an early luncheon.
The bluff and hearty Peter took such an interest in everything that was
being done for their comfort, giving special heed to all the possible
requirements of Mrs. Archibald, that the heart of Mr. Archibald was
touched.
"I wish," said he to his good-natured host, "that you were going with us.
I do not know any one I would rather camp with than you."
"If I could do it," replied Peter, "I'd like it ever so well. So far as I
have been able to make you out, you are the sort of a man I'd be willing
to run a camp for. What I like about you is that you haven't any mind of
your own. There is nothing I hate worse than to run against a man with a
mind of his own. Of course there have to be such fellows, but let them
keep away from me. There is no room here for more than one mind, and I
have pre-empted the whole section."
Mr. Archibald laughed. "Your opinion of me does not sound very
complimentary," he said.
"It is complimentary!" roared Peter Sadler, striking the table with his
fist. "Why, I tell you, sir, I couldn't say anything more commendable of
you if I tried! It shows that you are a man of common-sense, and that's
pretty high praise. Everything I've told you to do you've done. Everything
I've proposed you've agreed to. You see for yourself that I know what is
better for you and your party than you do, and you stand up like a man and
say so. Yes, sir; if a rolling-chair wasn't as bad for the woods as the
bicycle that Boston chap brought down here, I'd go along with you."
Mr. Archibald had a very sharp sense of the humorous, and in his enjoyment
of a comical situation he liked company. His heart was stirred to put his
expedition in its true light before this man who was so honest and
plain-spoken. "Mr. Sadler," said he, "if you will take it as a piece of
confidential information, and not intended for the general ear, I will
tell you what sort of a holiday my wife and I are taking. We are on a
wedding-journey." And then he told the story of the proxy bridal tour.
Peter Sadler threw himself back in his chair and laughed with such great
roars that two hunting-dogs, who were asleep in the hall, sprang to their
feet and dashed out of the back door, their tails between their legs.
"By the Lord Harry!" cried Peter Sadler, "you and your wife are a pair of
giants. I don't say anything about that young woman, for I don't believe
it would have made any difference to her whether you were on a
wedding-trip or travelling into the woods to bury a child. I tell you,
sir, you mayn't have a mind that can give out much, but you've got a mind
that can take in the biggest kind of thing, and that is what I call grand.
It is the difference between a canyon and a mountain. There are lots of
good mountains in this world, and mighty few good canyons. Tom, you Tom,
come here!"
In answer to the loud call a boy came running up.
"Go into my room," said Peter Sadler, "and bring out a barrel bottle,
large size, and one of the stone jars with a red seal on it. Now, sir,"
said he to Mr. Archibald, "I am going to give you a bottle of the very
best whiskey that ever a human being took into the woods, and a jar of
smoking-tobacco a great deal too good for any king on any throne. They
belong to my private stock, and I am proud to make them a present to a man
who will take a wedding-trip to save his grown-up daughter the trouble. As
for your wife, there'll be a basket that will go to her with my
compliments, that will show her what I think of her. By-the-way, sir, have
you met Phil Matlack?"
"No, I have not!" exclaimed Mr. Archibald, with animation. "I have heard
something about him, and before we start I should like to see the man who
is going to take charge of us in camp."
"Well, there he is, just passing the back door. Hello, Phil! come in
here."
When the eminent guide, Phil Matlack, entered the hall, Mr. Archibald
looked at him with some surprise, for he was not the conventional tall,
gaunt, wiry, keen-eyed backwoodsman who had naturally appeared to his
mental vision. This man was of medium height, a little round-shouldered,
dressed in a gray shirt, faded brown trousers very baggy at the knees, a
pair of conspicuous blue woollen socks, and slippers made of carpet. His
short beard and his hair were touched with gray, and he wore a small
jockey cap. With the exception of his eyes, Mr. Matlack's facial features
were large, and the expression upon them was that of a mild and generally
good-natured tolerance of the world and all that is in it. It may be
stated that this expression, combined with his manner, indicated also a
desire on his part that the world and all that is in it should tolerate
him. Mr. Archibald's first impressions of the man did not formulate
themselves in these terms; he simply thought that the guide was a slipshod
sort of a fellow.
"Phil," said Mr. Sadler, "here is the gentleman you are going to take into
camp."
"Glad to see him," said Matlack; "hope he'll like it."
"And I want to say to you, Phil," continued Sadler, "right before him,
that he is a first-class man for you to have in charge. I don't believe
you ever had a better one. He's a city man, and it's my opinion he don't
know one thing about hunting, fishing, making a camp-fire, or even digging
bait. I don't suppose he ever spent a night outside of a house, and
doesn't know any more about the weather than he does about planting
cabbages. He's just clean, bright, and empty, like a new peach-basket.
What you tell him he'll know, and what you ask him to do he'll do, and if
you want a better man than that to take into camp, you want too much.
That's all I've got to say."
Matlack looked at Peter Sadler and then at Mr. Archibald, who was leaning
back in his chair, his bright eyes twinkling.
"How did you find out all that about him?" he asked.
"Humph!" exclaimed Peter Sadler. "Don't you suppose I can read a man's
character when I've had a good chance at him? Now how about the
stores--have they all gone on?"
"They were sent out early this mornin'," said Matlack, "and we can start
as soon as the folks are ready."
CHAPTER V
CAMP ROB
It was early in the afternoon when the Archibald party took up the line of
march for Camp Rob. The two ladies, supplied by Mrs. Sadler with coarse
riding-skirts, sat each upon a farm-horse, and Mr. Archibald held the
bridle of the one that carried his wife. Matlack and Martin Sanders, the
young man who was to assist him, led the way, while a led horse, loaded
with the personal baggage of the travellers, brought up the rear.
Their way wound through a forest over a wood road, very rough and barely
wide enough for the passage of a cart. The road was solemn and still,
except where, here and there, an open space allowed the sunlight to play
upon a few scattered wild flowers and brighten the sombre tints of the
undergrowth.
After a ride which seemed a long one to the ladies, who wished they had
attired themselves in walking-costume, the road and the forest suddenly
came to an end, and before them stretched out the waters of a small lake.
Camp Rob was not far from the head of the lake, and for some distance
above and below the forest stood back from the water's edge. In the shade
of a great oak tree there stood a small log-house, rude enough to look at,
but moderately comfortable within, and from this house to the shore a wide
space was cleared of bushes and undergrowth.
The lake was narrow in proportion to its length, which was about two
miles, and on the other side the forest looked like a solid wall of green
reflected in the water beneath. Even Mrs. Archibald, whose aching back
began to have an effect upon her disposition, was delighted with the
beauty of the scene, which delight endured until she had descended from
her horse and entered the log-cabin in which she was to dwell for a time.
It is not necessary to describe the house, nor is it necessary to dive
into the depths of Mrs. Archibald's mind as she gazed about her, passing
silently from room to room of the little house. She was a good woman, and
she had made up her mind that she would not be a millstone around the
necks of her companions. Many people have been happy in camps, and,
indeed, camp-life has become one of the features of our higher
civilization, and this, from what she had heard, must be a camp above the
common. So, think what she might, she determined to make no open
complaint. If it were possible for her to be happy here, she would be
happy.
As for Margery, no determination was needed in her case. Everything was
better than she had expected to find it. The cabin, with the bark on
almost everything, even the furniture, was just what a house in the woods
ought to be; and when she entered the little studio, which was nearer
allied to the original forest than any other part of the house, she
declared that that must be her room, and that living there she would feel
almost like a dryad in an oak.
"You've camped out before?" said Phil Matlack to Mr. Archibald, as he was
taking a survey of the scene.
"Oh yes," said the other, "I've been out a few days at a time with
fishing-parties, but we never had such a fine camp as this--so well
located and such good accommodations."
"You are a fisherman, then?" said the guide.
"Yes. I am very fond of it. I've fished ever since I was a boy, and know a
good deal about bait, in spite of what Mr. Sadler said."
"I had an idea of that sort," remarked Phil, "but it ain't no use to
contradict Peter. It helps keep up his spirits for him to think he can
read the characters of people just as quick as he can aim a rifle. And
it's a mighty important thing to keep Peter's spirits up. If Peter's
spirits was to go down, things round here would flatten out worse than a
rotten punkin when it's dropped."
It did not take long to establish the new-comers in their woodland
quarters. The tent for the two men, which had arrived in the morning, was
pitched not far from the cabin, and then Matlack and Martin went to work
to prepare supper. The dining-room in pleasant weather was the small space
in front of the house, where there was a table made of a wide board
supported by stakes, with a low and narrow board on each side, also
resting on stakes, and forming seats.
The supper was a better one and better served than any of the party had
expected. The camp outfit included table-cloths, and even napkins.
"To-morrow," said Matlack, as he brought a dish of hot and savory broiled
ham, "after Mr. Archibald gets to work, we'll have some fish."
Mrs. Archibald had been a little fearful that under these primitive
conditions the two men might expect to sit at the table with them, but she
need have had no such fears. Matlack and Martin cooked and waited with a
skill and deftness which would have surprised any one who did not reflect
that this was as much their business as hunting or woodcraft.
After supper a camp-fire was built at a safe distance from the house, for
although the evening air was but slightly cool, a camp without a camp-fire
would not be a camp. The party ranged themselves around it, Mrs. Archibald
on a rug brought from the cabin, and her husband and Margery on the
ground. Mr. Archibald lighted his pipe, the fire lighted the trees and the
lake, and joy inexpressible lighted the heart of Margery.
"If I could smoke a pipe," said she, "and get Mr. Matlack to come here and
tell me how he killed a man, I should be perfectly happy."
That night Mrs. Archibald lay awake on her straw mattress. Absolute
darkness was about her, but through the open window she could see, over
the tops of the trees on the other side of the lake, one little star.
"If I could get any comfort out of that little star," thought the good
lady, "I would do it; but I can't do it, and there is nothing else to
comfort me."
On the other side of the room, on another straw mattress, she could hear
her husband breathing steadily. Then, upon the bare boards of the floor,
which were but a few inches below her little cot-bed, she thought she
heard the patter of small feet. A squirrel, perhaps, or, horrible to think
of, it might be a rat. She was sure rats would eat straw beds, and her
first impulse was to wake Mr. Archibald; but she hesitated, he was
sleeping so soundly. Still she listened, and now she became almost certain
that what she heard was not the patter of small feet; it sounded more like
something soft which was dragging itself over the floor--possibly a snake.
This idea was simply awful, and she sat up in bed. Still she did not call
Mr. Archibald, for should he suddenly spring on the floor, he would be in
more danger from the snake than she was.
She listened and she listened, but she heard nothing more, and then her
reason began to assure her that a snake's movements on a bare floor would
be absolutely noiseless; but in a moment all thoughts of serpents were
driven from her head. Outside of the cabin she heard a sound that could be
nothing less than the footsteps of some living creature--a wild beast,
perhaps a panther. The door was shut and fastened, but the window was
open. To call Mr. Archibald and tell him a wild beast was walking outside
the house would be positively wicked. Half-awakened, he would probably
rush out of the door to see what it was. What could she do? For an instant
she thought of lighting a candle and standing it in the window. She knew
that wild beasts were afraid of fire, and she did not believe that even a
panther would dare jump over a lighted candle. But if she struck a match
and got up, she would waken her husband; and, besides, if the wind, of
which she could feel a puff every now and then, did not blow out the
candle, it might blow it over and set fire to the cabin.
She heard the footsteps no more, and lay down again, but not to sleep. The
wind seemed to be rising, and made a wild, unearthly sound as it surged
through the trees which surrounded and imprisoned her, and shut her out
from the world in which she was born and in which she ought to live. There
was a far-away sound which came to her ears once, twice, thrice, and which
might have been the call of some ghostly bird or the war-whoop of an
Indian. At last she drew the covering over her head, determined that, so
long as she could not see, she would not hear.
"A wedding-journey!" she said to herself, and the idea, coupled with the
sense of her present grewsome and doleful condition, was so truly absurd
and ridiculous that she could not restrain a melancholy laugh.
"What is the matter, my dear?" exclaimed Mr. Archibald, suddenly turning
over in his bed. "Are you choking? Is the room too close? Shall I open the
door?"
"No, indeed," she said, "for that was a laugh you heard. I couldn't help
laughing at the thought that there should be two such idiots in the world
as you and myself."
"It is idiotic, isn't it?" said Mr. Archibald. "It is gloriously idiotic,
and it will do us both a world of good. It is such a complete and perfect
change that I don't wonder you laugh." Then he laughed himself, clearly
and loudly, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.
Mrs. Archibald felt certain that she would not sleep another wink that
night, but she did sleep seven hours and a half, and was awakened by
Margery singing outside her window.
CHAPTER VI
CAMP ROY
No thoughts of idiocy crossed the minds of any of the camping party during
their first breakfast under the great oak-tree. The air, the sunlight, the
rippling waters of the lake, the white clouds in the blue sky, the great
trunks of the trees, the rustling of the leaves, the songs of the birds,
the hum of insects, the brightness of everything, their wonderful
appetites--the sense of all these things more than filled their minds.
For the greater part of that day Mr. Archibald fished, sometimes in a
stream which ran into the head of the lake about a quarter of a mile above
the camp, and sometimes on the shores of the lake itself. Margery
sketched; her night in the studio had filled her with dreams of art, and
she had discovered in a corner a portable easel made of hickory sticks
with the bark on, and she had tucked some drawing materials into one of
her bags.
Mrs. Archibald was a little tired with her journey of the day before, and
contented herself with sitting in the shade in pleasant places, occupied
with some needle-work she had brought with her, and trying to discipline
her mind to habits of happiness in camp. This was not very difficult
during the first part of this beautiful day, but towards the end of the
afternoon she began to think less of the joys of a free life in the heart
of nature and more of the pleasure of putting on her bonnet and going out
to make some calls upon her friends. In this state of mind it pleased her
to see Phil Matlack coming towards her.
"Would you like a cup of tea, ma'am?" said he.
"No, thank you," she answered. "It would seem rather odd to have afternoon
tea in the woods, and I really don't care for it."
"We can have 'most anything in the woods, ma'am," said Matlack, "that we
can have anywhere else, providin' you don't mind what sort of fashion you
have it in. I thought it might be sort of comfortin' to you to have a cup
of tea. I've noticed that in most campin' parties of the family order
there's generally one or two of them that's lonesome the first day; and
the fact is I don't count on anything particular bein' done on the first
day in camp, except when the party is regular hunters or fishermen. It's
just as well for some of them to sit round on the first day and let things
soak into them, provided it isn't rain, and the next day they will have a
more natural feelin' about what they really want to do. Now I expect you
will be off on some sort of a tramp to-morrow, ma'am, or else be out in
the boat; and as for that young lady, she's not goin' to sketch no more
after to-day. She's got young Martin out in the boat, restin' on his oars,
while she's puttin' him into her picture. She's rubbed him out so often
that I expect he'll fall asleep and tumble overboard, or else drop one of
his oars."
"Mr. Matlack," said Mrs. Archibald, "will you please sit down a moment? I
want to ask you something."
"Certainly, ma'am," said he, and forthwith seated himself on a log near
by, picking up a stick as he did so, and beginning to shave the bark from
it with his pocket-knife.
"Do you know," said she, "if there are panthers in these woods?"
Matlack looked up at her quickly. "I expect you heard them walkin' about
your cabin last night," said he; "and not only panthers, but most likely a
bear or two, and snakes rustlin' in the leaves; and, for all I know, coons
or 'possums climbin' in and out of the window."
"Oh, nothing so bad as that," she replied. "I only thought--"
"Excuse me, ma'am," he interrupted. "I didn't mean that you heard all
those things, but most likely a part of them. Hardly any family parties
goes into camp that some of them don't hear wild beasts the first night.
But they never come no more. Them kind of wild beasts I call
first-nighters, and they're about the worst kind we've got, because they
really do hurt people by scratchin' and clawin' at their nerves, whereas
the real wild beasts in these parts--and they're mighty scarce, and never
come near camp--don't hurt nobody."
"I am glad to hear it," said she. "But what on earth can be keeping Mr.
Archibald? When he started out after dinner he said he would be back very
soon."
"Oh, he's got the fever, ma'am," said Matlack.
"Fever!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, dropping her work in her lap.
"Oh, don't be frightened," said he; "it is only the fishin' fever. It
don't hurt anybody; it only keeps the meals waitin'. You see, we are
pretty nigh the first people out this year, and the fish bite lively. Are
you fond of fishin', ma'am?"
"No, indeed," said she; "I dislike it. I think it is cruel and slimy and
generally unpleasant."
"I expect you'll spend most of your time in the boat," suggested Matlack.
"Your husband rows, don't he?"
"He doesn't row me," said Mrs. Archibald, with earnestness. "I never go
out in a boat except with a regular boatman. I suppose you have a larger
boat than the one that young man is in? I can see it from here, and it
looks very small."
"No, ma'am," said Matlack; "that's the only one we've got. And now I guess
I'll go see about supper. This has been a lazy day for us, but we always
do calc'late on a lazy day to begin with."
"It strikes me," said Matlack to himself, as he walked away, "that this
here camp will come to an end pretty soon. The man and the young woman
could stand it for a couple of weeks, but there's nothing here for the old
lady, and it can't be long before she'll have us all out of the woods
again."
"You can come in," called Margery, about ten minutes after this
conversation; and young Martin, who had not the least idea of going to
sleep in the boat, dipped his oars in the water and rowed ashore, pulled
the boat up on the beach, and then advanced to the spot where Margery was
preparing to put away her drawing materials.
"Would you mind letting me see your sketch?" said he.
"Oh no," said she; "but you'll see it isn't very much like the scene
itself. When I make a drawing from nature I never copy everything I see
just as if I were making a photograph. I suppose you think I ought to draw
the boat just as it is, but I always put something of my own in my
pictures. And that, you see, is a different kind of a boat from the one
you were in. It is something like Venetian boats."
"It isn't like anything in this part of the world, that is true," said the
young man, as he held the drawing in his hand; "and if it had been more
like a gondola it would not have suited the scene. I think you have caught
the spirit of the landscape very well; but if you don't object to a little
criticism, I should say that the shore over there is too near the
foreground. It seems to me that the picture wants atmosphere; that would
help the distance very much."
"Do you draw?" asked Margery, in surprise.
"I used to be very fond of sketching," said he. "I stayed at Sadler's a
good part of the last winter, and when I wasn't out hunting I made a good
many drawings of winter scenes. I would be glad to show them to you when
we go back."
"Well," said she, "if I had known you were an artist I would not have
asked you to go out there and sit as a model."
"Oh, I am not an artist," replied Martin; "I only draw, that's all. But if
you make any more water sketches and would like me to put some ducks or
any other kind of wild-fowl in the foreground I will be glad to do it for
you. I have made a specialty of natural-history drawings. Don't bother
yourself about that easel; I'll carry up your things for you."
About half-way to the cabin Margery suddenly stopped and turned round
towards the young man, who was following her. "How did you come to be a
guide?" she asked.
He smiled. "That's because I was born a naturalist and a sportsman. I went
into business when I finished my education, but I couldn't stand that, and
as I couldn't afford to become a gentleman sportsman, I came here as a
guide. I'm getting a lot of experience in this sort of life, and when I've
saved money enough I'm going on an exploring expedition, most likely to
Central America. That's the kind of life that will suit me."
"And write a book about it?" asked Margery.
"Most likely," said he.
That night, after supper, Margery remarked: "Our two guides are American
citizens, and I don't see why they can't eat at the table with us instead
of waiting until we have finished. We are all free and equal in the
woods."
"Margery Dearborn!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald. "What are you talking
about?"
She was going to say that if there were one straw more needed to break her
back, that straw would be the sight of the two guides sitting at the table
with them, but she restrained herself. She did not want Mr. Archibald to
know anything about the condition of her back.
"So long as they don't want to do it, and don't do it," said she, "pray
don't let us say anything about it. Let's try to make things as pleasant
as we can."
Mr. Archibald was lighting his pipe, and when he was sure the tobacco was
sufficiently ignited he took the pipe from his mouth and turned towards
his wife.
"Harriet," said he, "you have been too much alone to-day. I don't know
what I shall do to-morrow; but whatever it is, I am going to take you with
me."
"Of course that depends on what it is you do," she answered. "But I will
try to do everything I can."
Mr. Archibald heaved a little sigh, which was not noticed by any one,
because it sounded like a puff.
"I am afraid," he thought, "that this camping business is not going to
last very much longer, and we shall be obliged to make the rest of our
wedding-journey in a different style."
The next morning, when Mr. Archibald went out of his cabin door, he looked
over the lake and saw a bird suddenly swoop down upon the water, breaking
the smooth surface into sparkles of silver, and then rise again, a little
silvery fish glittering in its claws.
"Beautifully done!" said he. "A splendid stroke!" And then turning, he
looked up the lake, and not far from the water's edge he saw Margery
walking with Mr. Clyde, while Mr. Raybold followed a little in the rear.
"Harriet," he cried, quickly stepping into the cabin again, "look out
here! What is the meaning of this?"
Mrs. Archibald was dressed, and came out. When she saw the trio
approaching them, she was not so much surprised as was her husband.
"I don't know the meaning of anything that happens in these woods," she
said; "but if a lot of people have come from the hotel with those young
men I cannot say I am sorry."
"Come," said her husband, "we must look into this."
In two minutes the Archibalds had met the new-comers, who advanced with
outstretched hands, as if they had been old friends. Mr. Archibald, not
without some mental disquietude at this intrusion upon the woodland
privacy of his party, was about to begin a series of questions, when he
was forestalled by Margery.
"Oh, Uncle Archibald and Aunt Harriet!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Clyde and Mr.
Raybold have come out here to camp. Their camp is right next to ours, and
it is called Camp Roy. You see, some years ago there was a large camping
party came here, and they called the place Camp Rob Roy, but it was
afterwards divided, and one part called Camp Rob and the other Camp Roy."
"Indeed!" interrupted Mr. Archibald. "Mr. Sadler did not tell us that ours
was only half a camp with only half a name."
"I don't suppose he thought of it," said Margery. "And the line between
the two camps is just three hundred feet above our cabin. I don't suppose
anybody ever measures it off, but there it is; and Mr. Clyde and Mr.
Raybold have taken Camp Roy, which hasn't any house on it. They started
before daybreak this morning, and brought a tent along with them, which
they have pitched just back of that little peninsula; and they haven't any
guide, because they want to attend to their own cooking and everything,
and the man who brought the tent and other things has gone back. They are
going to live there just like real backwoodsmen, and they have a boat of
their own, which is to be brought up from the bottom of the lake
somewhere--I mean from the lower end of the lake. And, Aunt Harriet, may I
speak to you a moment?"
With this the young woman drew Mrs. Archibald aside, and in a low voice
asked if she thought it would be out of the way to invite the two young
men to take breakfast with them, as it was not likely they had all their
cooking things in order so early.
Five people sat down to breakfast under the great oak-tree, and it was a
lively meal. Mr. Archibald's mental disquiet, in which were now apparent
some elements of resentment, had not subsided, but the state of his mind
did not show itself in his demeanor, and he could not help feeling pleased
to see that his wife was in better spirits. He had always known that she
liked company.
After breakfast he took Matlack aside. "I don't understand this business,"
said he. "When I hired this camp I supposed we were to have it to
ourselves; but if there are other camps jammed close against it we may be
in the midst of a great public picnic before a week is out."
"Oh, that camp over there isn't much of a camp," replied the guide. "The
fact is, it is only the tail end of a camp, and I don't suppose Peter
Sadler thought anybody would be likely to take it just now, and so didn't
think it worth while to speak of it. Of course it's jammed up against this
one, as you say; but then the people in one camp haven't the right to
cross the line into another camp if the people in the other camp don't
want them to."
"Line!" said Mr. Archibald. "It is absurd to think of lines in a place
like this. And I have no intention of making myself disagreeable by
ordering people off my premises. But I would like to know if there is
another camp three hundred feet on this side of our cabin, or three
hundred feet back of it."
"No, sir," said Matlack, speaking promptly; "there isn't another camp
between this and the lower end of the lake. There's a big one there, and
it's taken; but the people aren't coming until next month."
"If a larger party had taken Camp Roy," said Mr. Archibald to his wife a
little later, "I should not mind it so much. But two young men! I do not
like it."
CHAPTER VII
A STRANGER
It was at the close of a pleasant afternoon four days after the arrival of
the young men at Camp Roy, and Mrs. Archibald was seated on a camp-stool
near the edge of the lake intently fishing. By her side stood Phil
Matlack, who had volunteered to interpose himself between her and all the
disagreeable adjuncts of angling. He put the bait upon her hook, he told
her when her cork was bobbing sufficiently to justify a jerk, and when she
caught a little fish he took it off the hook. Fishing in this pleasant
wise had become very agreeable to the good lady, and she found pleasures
in camp life which she had not anticipated. Her husband was in a boat some
distance out on the lake, and he was also fishing, but she did not care
for that style of sport; the fish were too big and the boat too small.
A little farther down the lake Martin Sanders sat busily engaged in
putting some water-fowl into the foreground of Margery's sketch. A
critical observer might have noticed that he had also made a number of
changes in said sketch, all of which added greatly to its merits as a
picture of woodland scenery. At a little distance Margery was sitting at
her easel making a sketch of Martin as an artist at work in the woods. The
two young men had gone off with their guns, not perhaps because they
expected to find any legitimate game at that season, but hoping to secure
some ornithological specimens, or to get a shot at some minor quadrupeds
unprotected by law. Another reason for their expedition could probably
have been found in some strong hints given by Mr. Archibald that it was
unwise for them to be hanging around the camps and taking no advantage of
the opportunities for sport offered by the beautiful weather and the
forest.
It was not long before Margery became convinced that the sketch on which
she was working did not resemble her model, nor did it very much resemble
an artist at work in the woods.
"It looks a good deal more like a cobbler mending shoes," she said to
herself, "and I'll keep it for that. Some day I will put a bench under him
and a shoe in his hand instead of a sketch." With that she rose, and went
to see how Martin was getting on. "I think," she said, "those dark ducks
improve the picture very much. They throw the other things back." Then she
stopped, went to one side, and gazed out over the lake. "I wonder," she
said, "if there is really any fun in fishing. Uncle Archibald has been out
in that boat for more than two hours, and he has fished almost every day
since he's been here. I should think he would get tired of it."
"Oh no," said Martin, looking up with animation. "If you know how to fish,
and there is good sport, you never get tired of it."
"I know how to fish," said Margery, "and I do not care about it at all."
"You know how to fish?" said Martin. "Can you make a cast with a fly?"
"I never tried that," said she. "But I have fished as Aunt Harriet does,
and it is easy as can be."
"Oh," said he, "you don't know anything about fishing unless you have
fished with a fly. That is the only real sport. It is as exciting as a
battle. If you would let me teach you how to throw a fly, I am sure you
would never find fishing tiresome, and these woods would be like a new
world to you."
"Why don't you do it yourself, then?" she asked.
"Because I am paid to do other things," he replied. "We are not sent here
simply to enjoy ourselves, though I must say that I--" And then he
suddenly stopped. "I wish you would let me teach you fly-fishing. I know
you would like it."
Margery looked at the eager face turned towards her, and then she gazed
out over the water.
"Perhaps I might like it," she said. "But it wouldn't be necessary for you
to take that trouble. Uncle Archibald has two or three times asked me to
go out with him, and of course he would teach me how to fish as he does.
Isn't that somebody calling you?"
"Yes," said Martin, rising; "it's Phil. I suppose it's nearly
supper-time."
As they walked towards the camp, Margery in front, and Martin behind her
carrying the drawing-materials and the easel, Margery suddenly turned.
[Illustration: "'THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK'"]
"It was very good of you to offer to teach me to fish with flies," she
said, "and perhaps, if Uncle Archibald doesn't want to be bothered, I may
get you to show me how to do it."
The young man's face brightened, and he was about to express his pleasure
with considerable warmth; but he checked himself, and merely remarked that
whenever she was ready he would provide a rod and flies and show her how
to use them.
Mrs. Archibald had gone into the cabin, and Margery went up to Matlack,
who was on his way to the little tent in which the camp cooking was done.
"Did Mrs. Archibald tell you," said she, "that we have invited Mr. Clyde
and Mr. Raybold to supper to-night?"
The guide stopped and smiled. "She told me," said he, "but I don't know
that it was altogether necessary."
"I suppose you mean," said Margery, "that they are here so much; but I
don't wonder; they must do awfully poor cooking for themselves. I don't
suppose they will bring anything back that is good to eat."
"Not at this time of year," said he, "but I shall be satisfied if they
bring themselves home."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Margery, quickly.
"Well," said Matlack, "I don't doubt the bicycle fellow will always come
back all right, but I'm afeard about the other one. That bicycle chap
don't know no more about a gun than he does about makin' bread, and I
wouldn't go out huntin' with him for a hundred dollars. He's just as
likely to take a crack at his pardner's head as at anything else that's
movin' in the woods."
"That is dreadful!" exclaimed Margery.
"Yes, it is," returned the guide; "and if I had charge of their camp he
wouldn't go out with a gun again. But it will be all right in a day or
two. Peter will settle that."
"Mr. Sadler, do you mean?" asked Margery. "What's he got to do with it?"
"He's got everything to do with it," said Matlack. "He's got everything to
do with everything in this part of the country. He's got his laws, and he
sees to it that people stand by them. One of his rules is that people who
don't know how to use guns sha'n't shoot in his camps."
"But how can he know about the people out here in the woods?" asked
Margery.
"I tell you, miss," said Matlack, speaking slowly and decisively, "Peter
Sadler's ways of knowing things is like gas--the kind you burn, I mean. I
was a-visitin' once in a city house, and slept in a room on the top floor,
and there was a leak in the pipe in the cellar, and that gas just went
over the whole house, into every room and closet, and even under the beds,
and I've often thought that that was just like Peter's way of doin' things
and knowin' things. You take my word for it, that bicycle-man won't go out
huntin' many more days, even if he don't shoot his pardner fust."
"He won't go to-morrow," thought Margery; and then she said to Matlack: "I
think we ought to know Mr. Sadler's rules. Has he any more of them?"
"Oh, they ain't very many," said Matlack. "But there's one I think of now,
and that is that no woman shall go out in a boat by herself on this
lake."
"That is simply horrid!" exclaimed Margery. "Women can row as well as
men."
"I don't say they can't," said Matlack. "I'm only tellin' you what Peter's
rules are, and that's one of them."
Margery made no reply, but walked away, her head thrown back a little more
than was usual with her.
"I've got to keep my eye on her," said Matlack to himself, as he went to
the cabin; "she's never been broke to no harness."
* * * * *
Mr. Raybold did not shoot Mr. Clyde, nor did he shoot anything else. Mr.
Clyde did shoot a bird, but it fell into the water at a place where the
shore was very marshy, and it was impossible for him to get it. He thought
it was a heron, or a bittern, or perhaps a fish-hawk, but whatever it was,
both ladies said that it was a great pity to kill it, as it was not good
to eat, and must have been very happy in its life in the beautiful
forest.
"It is very cruel to shoot them when they are not strictly game," said Mr.
Clyde, "and I don't believe I will do it. If I had the things to stuff
them with, that would be different, but I haven't. I believe fishing is
just as much fun, and more sensible."
"I do not!" exclaimed Mr. Raybold. "I hold that hunting is a manly art,
and that a forester's life is as bold and free to him as it is to the
birds in the air. I believe I have the blood of a hunter in me. My voice
is for the woods."
"I expect you will change your voice," thought Margery, "when Mr. Sadler
takes your gun away from you." But she did not say so.
Mr. Archibald stood with his hands in his pockets reflecting. He had hoped
that these two young men were inveterate hunters, and that they would
spend their days in long tramps. He did not at all approve of their
fishing. Fishing could be done anywhere--here, for instance, right at this
very door.
Supper was over, and the five inhabitants of Camps Rob and Roy had seated
themselves around the fire which Martin had carefully built, keeping in
view a cheery blaze without too much heat. Pipes had been filled and
preparations made for the usual evening smoke and talk, when a man was
seen emerging from the woods at the point where the road opened into the
clearing about the camp. It was still light, for these hungry campers
supped early, and the man could be distinctly seen as he approached, and
it was plain that he was not a messenger from Sadler's.
He was rather a large man, dressed in black, and wearing a felt hat with a
wide, straight brim. Hanging by a strap from his shoulder was a small
leather bag, and in his hand he carried a closed umbrella. Advancing
towards the fire, he took off his hat, bowed, and smiled. He wore no
beard, his face was round and plump, and his smile was pleasant.
"Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen," said he, and his voice was as
pleasant as his smile.
"Good-evening," said Mr. Archibald, and then for a moment there was a
pause.
"I presume," said the new-comer, looking about him, "that this is a
camp."
"It is a camp," said Mr. Archibald.
"The fact is so obvious," said the man in black, "that it was really
unnecessary for me to allude to it. May I ask to be allowed to sit down
for a few moments? I am fatigued."
At this juncture Phil Matlack arrived on the scene. "Well, sir," said he,
"have you any business with anybody here? Who do you wish to see?"
"I have no business," said the other, "and--"
"And you are a stranger to everybody here?" interrupted Matlack.
"Yes, but I hope--"
"Now then," said the guide, quickly, "I've got to ask you to move on. This
is one of Peter Sadler's camps, and he has strict rules against strangers
stoppin' in any of them. If you've lost your way, I'll tell you that this
road, if you don't turn to the right or the left, will take you straight
to Sadler's, and there's time enough for you to get there before dark."
"Mr. Matlack," exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, who had risen to her feet, "I
want to speak to you! It's a shame," she said, when the guide had
approached her, "to send that man away without even giving him a chance to
rest himself. He may be a very respectable person on a walking tour."
"I guess he is on a walkin' tour," said Matlack, "and I guess he's a
regular tramp, and there's no orders we've got that's stricter than them
against tramps."
"Well, I don't care who he is," said Mrs. Archibald, "or what your rules
are, but when a perfectly good-mannered man comes to us and asks simply to
be allowed to rest, I don't want him to be driven away as if he were a
stray pig on a lawn. Mr. Archibald, shouldn't he be allowed to rest a
while?"
Her husband rose and approached the stranger. "Where are you going, sir?"
said he.
The man looked at Matlack, at Martin, who stood behind him, and then at
the rest of the company, and after this comprehensive glance he smiled.
"From present appearances," he said, "I think I am going to go."
Mr. Archibald laughed. "When do you expect to get there?" he asked.
"It seems to me," said the other, reflectively, "that I am always going
there, and I suppose I shall have to keep on doing it."
"Look here," said Mr. Archibald, turning to Matlack, "give him some
supper, and let him rest. There will be time enough for him to get to
Sadler's after that. If Sadler has anything to say against it, refer him
to me."
"All right, sir," said Matlack, "if you say so. I'm no harder on my
fellow-bein's than other people, but rules is rules, and it isn't for me
to break them."
"My dear sir," said the stranger to Mr. Archibald, "your words are more
grateful to me than the promise of food. I see that you consider me a
tramp, but it is a mistake. I am not a tramp. If you will allow me, after
I have eaten a little supper--a meal which I must admit I greatly need--I
will explain to you how I happen to be here." And with a bow he walked
towards the table where Matlack and Martin had been eating their supper.
"Do you know what I think he is?" said Mr. Clyde, when Mr. Archibald had
resumed his seat and his pipe. "I believe he is a wandering actor. Actors
always have smoothly shaven faces, and he looks like one."
"Actor!" exclaimed Arthur Raybold. "That's nonsense. He's not in the least
like an actor. Anybody could see by his tread and his air that he's never
been on the stage. He's more like a travelling salesman. The next thing
he'll do will be to pull out of that bag some samples of spool thread or
patent thimbles."
"You are both wrong," said Margery--"entirely wrong. I have been looking
at him, and I believe he is a Methodist minister with a dead horse. They
ride circuits, and of course when their horses die they walk. Just wait a
little, and see if I am not right."
They waited a little, and then they waited a little longer, and they had
begun to be tired of waiting before the stranger finished his meal and
approached the fire. His face was brighter, his smile was more pleasant,
and his step had a certain jauntiness in it.
"I thank you all," he said, "for the very good meal I have just enjoyed. I
am now going to go, but before I start I would like very much--indeed, I
crave it as a favor--to place myself before you in my proper light. May I
have permission to do so, madam and sir?" he said, addressing Mrs. and Mr.
Archibald, but with a respectful glance at the others, as if he would not
ignore any one of them.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Archibald. "Sit down and tell us about yourself."
The stranger seated himself with alacrity a little back from the circle,
and nearer to the young men than to the Archibald party.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BISHOP'S TALE
The stranger placed his broad-brimmed hat on the ground beside him,
exposing a large round head somewhat bald in front, but not from age, and
the rest of it covered with close-cut brown hair. His black clothes fitted
him very closely, their extreme tightness suggesting that they had
shrunken in the course of wearing, or that he had grown much plumper since
he had come into possession of them; and their general worn and dull
appearance gave considerable distance to the period of their first
possession. But there was nothing worn or dull about the countenance of
the man, upon which was an expression of mellow geniality which would have
been suitably consequent upon a good dinner with plenty of wine. But his
only beverage had been coffee, and in his clear bright eye there was no
trace of any exhilaration, except that caused by the action of a hearty
meal upon a good digestion and an optimistic disposition.
"I am very glad," he said, looking about him at the company, and then
glancing with a friendly air towards the two guides, who stood a little
back of Mr. Archibald, "to have this opportunity to explain my appearance
here. In the first place, I must tell you that I am a bishop whose diocese
has been inundated, and who consequently has been obliged to leave it."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Archibald; and Margery looked at Mr. Clyde, with the
remark:
"There! You see I was very near to it."
"I presume this statement will require some explanation," continued the
man in black, "and I will make it presently. I am going to be exceedingly
frank and open in all that I say to you, and as frankness and openness are
so extremely rare in this world, it may be that I shall obtain favor in
your eyes from the fact of my possessing those unusual qualities.
Originally I was a teacher, and for a year or two I had a very good
country school; but my employment at last became so repugnant to me that I
could no longer endure it, and this repugnance was due entirely to my
intense dislike for children."
"That is not at all to your credit," observed Mrs. Archibald; "and I do
not see how you became a bishop, or why you should have been made one."
"Was your diocese entirely meadow-land?" inquired Mr. Archibald.
"I am coming to all that," said the stranger, with a smile of polite
consideration towards Mrs. Archibald. "I know very well that it is not at
all to my credit to dislike children, but I said I would be honest, and I
am. I do dislike them--not their bodies, but their minds. Children,
considered physically, are often pleasant to the view, and even
interesting as companions, providing their innate juvenility is
undisturbed; but when their personalities are rudely thrown open by a
teacher, and the innate juvenility prematurely exposed to the air, it is
something so clammy, so chilly to the mental marrow, that I shrink from it
as I would shrink from the touch of any cold, clammy thing."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald.
"I am not sure," observed Margery, "that there is not some truth in that.
I had a Sunday-school class for a little while, and although I can't say
there was a clamminess, there was--well, I don't know what there was, but
I gave it up."
"I am glad," said the man in black, "that my candor is not sinking me in
the estimation of every one present; but even if it did, I am obliged to
tell the truth. I do not know what would have become of me if I had not
had the good-fortune to catch the measles from a family with whom I was
spending Sunday in another town. As soon as the disease plainly showed
itself upon me my school was broken up, and it was never gathered together
again, at least under me.
"I must make my story brief, and can only say that not long after this I
found myself in another town, where it became necessary for me to do
something to support myself. This was difficult, for I am an indefinite
man, and definiteness seems necessary to success in any line. Happening
one day to pass a house with open lower windows, I heard the sound of
children's voices speaking in unison, and knowing that this must be a
school, I looked in, compelled entirely by that curiosity which often
urges us to gaze upon human suffering. I found, however, that this was a
kindergarten conducted by a young woman. Unobserved by scholars or
teacher, I watched the proceedings with great interest, and soon became
convinced that kindergartening was a much less repellent system of tuition
than any I had known; but I also perceived that the methods of the young
woman could be greatly improved. I thought a good deal upon this subject
after leaving the open window. Soon afterwards, becoming acquainted with
the young person in charge of the children, I offered to teach her a much
better system of kindergartening than she was using. My terms were very
low, and she became my scholar. I soon learned that there were other
kindergartens in the town, and some of the teachers of these joined my
class. Moreover, there were young women in the place who were not
kindergartners, but who would like to become such, and these I also
taught, sometimes visiting them at their houses, and sometimes giving my
lessons in a room loaned by one of my patrons. My system became very
popular, because it was founded upon common-sense."
"What was your system?" asked Mrs. Archibald. "I am interested in
kindergartens myself."
"My object," he answered, "was to make the operation of teaching
interesting to the teacher. It struck me very forcibly that a continuance
of a few years in the present inane performances called kindergartening
would infallibly send to our lunatic asylums a number of women, more or
less young, with more or less depleted intellects. The various games and
exercises I devised were very interesting, and I am sure I had scholars
who never intended to become kindergartners, and who studied with me
solely for their own advantage. It was at this time that I adopted the
clerical dress as being more suitable to my vocation than any other
costume, and some one having called me the bishop, the name soon became
popular, and I was generally known by it."
"But what is your real name?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
"Madam," said the man, "you must excuse me if I ask you to recall your
question. I have a good name, and I belong to a very good family, but
there are reasons why I do not at present wish to avow that name. Some of
these reasons are connected with the report that I purposely visited the
family with the measles in order to get rid of my school; others are
connected with the inundation of my diocese, of which I shall speak;
others refer to my present indefinite method of life. There is reason to
suppose that the time is not far distant when my resumption of my family
name will throw no discredit upon it, but that period has not yet arrived.
Do you press your question, madam?"
"Oh no," said Mrs. Archibald; "it really makes no difference; and out here
in the woods a man may call himself a bishop or a cardinal or anything he
likes."
"Thank you very much," said he, "and I will continue to speak in figures,
and call myself a bishop."
"Where I was brought up," interpolated Phil Matlack, still standing behind
Mr. Archibald, "I was taught that figures don't lie."
"My good sir," said the speaker, with a smile, "in mathematics they don't,
in poetry and literature they often do. Well, as I was saying, my
diocese extended itself, my revenues were satisfactory, and I had
begun to believe that I had found my true work in life, when suddenly
there was a misfortune. There arrived in our town three apostles of
kindergartening--two of them were women, and one was a man. They had heard
of my system, and had come to investigate it. They did so, with the
result that in an astonishingly short time my diocese was inundated with a
flood of Froebelism which absolutely swept me away. With this bag,
this umbrella, and this costume, which has now become my wardrobe, I
was cast out in all my indefiniteness upon a definite world."
"And how did you get here?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
"I had heard of Sadler and his camps," said he; "and in this beautiful
month and in this beautiful weather I thought it would be well to
investigate them. I accordingly went to Mr. Sadler's, where I arrived
yesterday afternoon. I found Mr. Sadler a very definite man, and, I am
sorry to say, that as he immediately defined me as a tramp, he would
listen to no other definition. 'You have no money to pay for food and
lodgings,' said he, 'and you come under my tramp laws. I don't harbor
tramps, but I don't kick them out into the woods to starve. For labor on
this place I pay one dollar and a half a day of ten hours. For meals to
day-laborers I charge fifteen cents each. If you want your supper, you can
go out to that wood-shed and split wood for one hour.' I was very hungry;
I went out into the wood-shed; I split wood for one hour, and at the end
of that time I had a sufficient meal. When I had finished, Mr. Sadler sent
for me. 'Do you want to stay here all night?' he said. 'I do,' I answered.
'Go, then, and split wood for another hour.' I did so, and it was almost
dark when I had finished. In the morning I split wood for my breakfast,
and when I had finished I went to Mr. Sadler and asked him how much he
would charge for a luncheon wrapped in a piece of paper. 'Seven and a half
cents,' he said. I split wood for half an hour, and left Sadler's
ostensibly to return to the station by the way I had come; but while I had
been at work, I found from the conversation of some of the people that one
of the camps was occupied, and I also discovered in what direction it lay.
Consequently, after I had passed out of the sight of the definite Peter
Sadler, I changed my course, and took a path through the woods which I was
told would lead to this road, and I came here because I might just as well
pass this way as any other, and because, having set out to investigate
camp life, I wished to do so, and I hope I may be allowed to say that
although I have seen but little of it, I like it very much."
"Now, then," said Phil Matlack, walking around the circle and approaching
the stranger, "you said, when you first came here, that you were going to
go, and the time has come when you've got to go."
"Very well," said the other, looking up with a smile; "if I've got there
I'd better stop."
Mr. Archibald and the young men laughed, but Matlack and Martin, who had
now joined him, did not laugh.
"You've barely time enough," said the former, "to get to Sadler's before
it is pitch-dark, and--"
"Excuse me," said the other, "but I am not going back to Sadler's
to-night. I would rather have no bed than split wood for an hour after
dark in order to procure one. I would prefer a couch of dried leaves."
"You come along into the road with this young man and me; I want to talk
to you," said Matlack.
"Now, Matlack," said Mr. Archibald, "don't be cruel."
"I am not," said the guide. "I am the tenderest-hearted person in the
world; but even if you say so, sir, I can't let a stranger stay all night
in a camp that I've got charge of."
"Look here, Matlack," exclaimed Mr. Clyde, "you haven't got charge of our
camp!"
"No, I haven't," said the other.
"Well, then, this person can come over and stay with us. We have a little
tent that we brought to put over the cooking-stove, and he can sleep in
that."
"Very well," said Matlack; "if you take him out of this camp I haven't
anything to say--that is, to-night."
"My dear sir," said the stranger, rising, and approaching Mr. Clyde, "I
accept your offer with pleasure, and thank you most heartily for it. If
you had proffered me the hospitality of a palace, I could not be more
grateful."
"All right," said Clyde; "and I suppose it is time for us to be off, so I
will bid you all good-night. Come along, Arthur. Come along, bishop."
The face of the last-named individual beamed with delight as he heard this
appellation, and bidding everybody good-night, and thanking them for the
kindness with which he had been treated, he followed the two young men.
The three walked some little distance towards Camp Roy, and then Clyde
came running back to speak to Margery, who was now standing by herself
watching the young moon descend among the trees. Then Mr. Raybold also
stopped and came back to Margery, upon which the bishop stopped and waited
for them. In about ten minutes he was joined by the two young men, and the
three proceeded to Camp Roy.
"There is one thing, Harriet," said Mr. Archibald, "which I wish you would
speak to Margery about. I don't want her to get up so early and go out for
a morning walk. I find that those young men are also early risers."
"I will speak to her," said Mrs. Archibald; "where is she?"
"Over there, talking to young Martin," said her husband. "It isn't quite
dark yet, but I think it is time we were all in bed."
"Quite time," said she. "Margery tells me that that young guide, who is a
handsome fellow, is going to teach her how to fish with flies. I wish you
would sometimes take her out in the boat with you, Mr. Archibald; I am
sure that you could teach her how to fish."
He smiled. "I suppose I could," he said; "and I also suppose I could pull
her out of the water the first time she hooked a big fish. It would be
like resting a boat on a pivot to put her into it."
"Then you don't take her," said Mrs. Archibald, decisively. "And you can't
take her with you up the stream, because, of course, she can't wade. I
don't want her to get tired of camp-life, but--"
"Don't be afraid of the young men," interrupted her husband, with a laugh;
"so long as there are three of them there is no danger."
"Of course I will not, if you don't wish it, Aunt Harriet," said Margery,
when Mrs. Archibald had spoken to her about the early morning walks; "and
I will stay in my room until you call me."
The next morning, when Mrs. Archibald was ready to leave the cabin, she
did call Margery, but received no answer. Then she went to the little
studio-room, and when she opened the door she found its occupant leaning
out of the window talking to Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold, who stood
outside.
"Good-morning, Aunt Harriet!" exclaimed Margery, gayly. "Mr. Clyde has
brought me nearly an armful of birch-bark, all thin and smooth. I am going
to make a birch-bark bedspread out of it. I'll cover a sheet with these
pieces, you see, and sew them on. Then I can have autographs on them, and
mottoes, and when I cover myself up with it I shall really feel like a
dryad."
"And here is what I have brought," said Mr. Raybold, holding up an armful
of bark.
"Oh, thank you very much," said Margery, taking the mass, but not without
dropping a good many of the pieces. "Of course it was kind of him to bring
it," she said to Mrs. Archibald, as they left the room together, "but he
needn't have bothered himself: I don't want to sleep under a wood-pile."
CHAPTER IX
MATLACK'S THREE TROUBLES
"Have you asked those two young men to breakfast again?" inquired Mr.
Archibald, after examining, with a moderate interest, the specimen of
birch-bark which Margery had shown him.
"Oh no, indeed," said she, "they have had their breakfast. They have been
telling me about it. The bishop got up very early in the morning and
cooked it for them. He's a splendid cook, and he found things in their
hampers that they didn't know they had. They said his coffee was
delicious, and they have left him there in their camp now, washing the
dishes and putting everything in order. And do you think, Uncle Archibald,
that it is going to rain?"
"I do," said he, "for it is sprinkling already."
This proved to be the first bad day since the Archibald party had gone
into camp, and the rain soon began to come down in a steady, practised
way, as if the clouds above were used to that sort of thing and could
easily keep it up all day.
As there was no place under roof to which company could be conveniently
invited, Margery retired to her room and set herself diligently to work on
her birch-bark quilt.
Mrs. Archibald established herself in the division of the cabin which was
intended to be used as a sitting and dining room in bad weather, and
applied herself to some sewing and darning, which had been reserved for
just such a day as this. Mr. Archibald, in a water-proof suit, tried
fishing for half an hour or so, but finding it both unpleasant and
unprofitable, he joined his wife, made himself as comfortable as possible
on two chairs, and began to read aloud one of the novels they had brought
with them.
Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold had considerately gone to their own camp when it
began to rain, hoping, however, that the shower would be over in a short
time. But the rain was not a shower, and they spent the morning on their
backs in their tent, talking and smoking. Of course they could not expect
the bishop to depart in the rain, so they had told him to make himself as
comfortable as he could in the little kitchen tent, and offered him a pipe
and a book. The first he declined, as he never smoked, but the latter he
accepted with delight.
After the mid-day dinner Phil Matlack, in a pair of high hunting-boots and
an oil-skin coat, came to Mr. Archibald and said that as there was nothing
he could do that afternoon, he would walk over to Sadler's and attend to
some business he had there.
"About the bishop?" asked Mr. Archibald.
"Partly," said Matlack. "I understand the fellow is still over there with
those two young men. I don't suppose they'll send him off in the rain, and
as he isn't in my camp, I can't interfere. But it may rain for two or
three days."
"All right," said Mr. Archibald, "and if we want anything we'll ask
Martin."
"Just so," said Matlack. "If there's anything to do that you don't want to
do yourself, you can get him to do it; but if you want to know anything
you don't know yourself, you'd better wait until I come back."
When Matlack presented himself before Peter Sadler he found that ponderous
individual seated in his rolling-chair near the open door, enjoying the
smell of the rain.
"Hello, Phil!" he cried. "What's wrong at the camp?"
The guide left his wet coat and cap on the little piazza outside, and
after carefully wiping his feet, seated himself on a chair near the door.
"There's three things wrong," said he. "In the first place, there's a
tramp out there, and it looks to me as if he was a-goin' to stick, if he
can get allowed to do it."
"Is he too big for you to bounce?" roared Peter. "That's a pretty story to
come tell me!"
"No, he ain't," said the other; "but I haven't got the bouncin' of him.
He's not in my camp. The young men have took him in; but I expect he'll
come over with them as soon as it's done rainin', for when that happens
they're bound to come themselves."
"Look here, Phil," said Peter, "is he dressed in black?"
"Yes, he is," said the guide.
Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. "Phil Matlack," he
shouted, "that's my favorite tramp. I never had a man here who paid his
bill in work as he did. It was cash down, and good money. Not a minute of
wood-splitting more or less than the market-price for meals and bed. I'd
like to have a tramp like that come along about twice a week. But I tell
you, Phil, he ain't no tramp. Couldn't you see that? None of them loafers
ever worked as he did."
"He may not be a tramp," said Matlack, "but he's trampin'. What are you
goin' to do about him? Let him stay there?"
"What's he doin' now?" asked Sadler.
"He's cookin' for those two young men."
"Well, they need some one to do it for them, and they didn't want to go to
the expense of a guide. Let the parson alone for a day or two, and if he
does anything out of the way just you take him by one ear and Martin take
him by the other and bring him to me. I'll attend to him. What's the next
trouble?"
"That's out of my camp, too," said Matlack, "but I'm bound to report it.
The bicycle fellow that you hired a gun to don't know the fust thing about
usin' it, and the next thing you'll hear will be that he's shot his
pardner, who's worth six of him."
Mr. Sadler sat up very straight in his chair and stared at the guide.
"Phil Matlack," he shouted, "what do you take me for? I hired that gun to
that young man. Don't you suppose I know what I'm about?"
"That's all right," said Matlack, "but the trouble is he don't know what
he's about."
"Get away man," said Peter, with a contemptuous sniff, "he'll never hurt
anybody. What do you take me for? When he came to me and wanted a gun, I
handed him two or three, so that he might choose one that suited him, and
by the way he handled them I could see that most likely he'd never handled
one before, and so I set him up all right. He's got a good gun, and all
the cartridges he'll be likely to want; and the cartridges are all like
this. They're a new kind I heard of last winter, and I got a case from
Boston last week. I don't see how I ever managed to run my camps without
them. Do you see that shot?" said he, opening one end of a cartridge.
"Well, take one in your hand and pinch it."
Phil did so, and it crumbled to dust in his hand.
"When that load's fired," said Peter, "all the shot will crumble into
dust. It wouldn't do to give raw hands blank-cartridges, because they'd
find that out; but with this kind they might sit all day and fire at a
baby asleep in its cradle and never disturb it, provided the baby was
deaf. And he can't use his pardner's cartridges, for I gave that fellow a
twelve-bore gun and his is a ten-bore."
Phil grinned. "Well, then," said he, "I suppose I might as well make my
mind easy, but if that bicycle man hunts much he'll get the conviction
borne in on him that he's a dreadful bad shot."
"Then he'll give up shooting, which is what is wanted," said Sadler.
"What's your third bother?"
"That young woman has made up her mind to go out in the boat by herself
the very fust time she feels like it," said Matlack; "she didn't say so
with her mouth, but she said it with the back of her head and her
shoulders, and I want to know if that rule of yours is going to hold good
this summer. Women is gettin' to do so many things they didn't use to that
I didn't know but what you'd consider they'd got far enough to take
themselves out on the lake, and if you do think so, I don't want to get
myself in hot water with those people and then find you don't back me
up."
"If you don't want to get yourself into hot water with me, Phil Matlack,
you'd better get it into your head just as soon as you can that when I
make a rule it's a rule, and I don't want people comin' to me and talkin'
about changes. Women in my camp don't go out in boats by themselves, and
it's easy enough to have that rule kept if you've got backbone enough to
do it. Keep the boat locked to the shore when it ain't in use, and put the
key in your pocket, and if anybody gets it that 'ain't any right to it,
that's your lookout. Now that's the end of your troubles, I hope. How's
things goin' on generally in the camp?"
"Oh, well enough," said Matlack. "I thought at fust the old lady'd give
out in a day or two, but I've taught her parlor-fishin', which she's took
to quite lively, and she's got used to the woods. The boss, he sticks to
fishin', as if it was office-work, and as for the rest of them, I guess
they're all gettin' more and more willin' to stay."
"Why?" asked Peter.
"Well, one of them is a gal and the others isn't," replied Matlack,
"that's about the p'int of it."
During Matlack's walk back the skies cleared, and when he reached the camp
he found Mrs. Archibald seated in her chair near the edge of the lake, a
dry board under her feet, and the bishop standing by her, putting bait on
her hook, and taking the fish off of it when any happened to be there. Out
in the boat sat Mr. Archibald, trusting that some fish might approach the
surface in search of insects disabled by the rain. Farther on, at a place
by the water's edge that was clear of bushes and undergrowth, Martin was
giving Miss Dearborn a lesson in fly-fishing.
"He's a mighty good fisherman," thought Matlack, looking at the young
fellow as he brought his rod back from the water with a long graceful
sweep, and then, with another sweep and an easy inclination of his body
forward, sending the fly far out on the smooth surface of the lake,
"although there ain't no need to tell him so; and I don't wonder she'd
rather stand and watch him than try to do it herself."
Walking up and down near the edge of the wood were Messrs. Clyde and
Raybold.
Phil smiled. "They don't seem to be happy," he said to himself. "I guess
they're hankerin' to take a share in her edication; but if you don't know
nothin' yourself, you can't edicate other people."
Matlack directed his steps towards Mrs. Archibald; but before he reached
her he was met by the bishop, who hurried towards him.
"I shall be obliged to surrender my post to you," he said, "which will be
greatly to the lady's satisfaction, I imagine, for I must appear a poor
attendant after you."
[Illustration: "A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING"]
"Goin' to leave us?" said Matlack. "You look quite spruced up."
The bishop smiled. "You allude, I suppose," said he, "to the fact that my
hat and clothes are brushed, and that I am freshly shaved and have on a
clean collar. I like to be as neat as I can. This is a gutta-percha
collar, and I can wash it whenever I please with a bit of damp rag, and it
is my custom to shave every day, if I possibly can. But as to leaving you,
I shall not do so this evening. I have promised those young gentlemen who
so kindly invited me to their camp that I would prepare their supper for
them, and I must now go to make the fire and get things in readiness."
"Have they engaged you as cook and general help?" asked Matlack.
"Oh no," said the bishop, with a smile, "they are kind and I am grateful,
that is all."
CHAPTER X
A LADIES' DAY IN CAMP
Two days after the rainy day in camp Mr. Archibald determined to take the
direction of affairs into his own hands, so far as he should be able.
Having no authority over the two young men at Camp Roy, he had hitherto
contented himself with a disapproval of their methods of employing their
time, which he communicated only to his wife. But now he considered that,
as they were spending so much of their time in his camp and so little in
their own, he would take charge of them exactly as if they belonged to his
party. He would put an end, if possible, to the aimless strolls up and
down the beach with Margery, and the long conversations of which that
young woman had grown to be so fond, held sometimes with both young men,
though more frequently with one. If Clyde and Raybold came into the woods
to lounge in the shade and talk to a girl, they must go to some other camp
to do it. But if they really cared to range the forest, either as
sportsmen or lovers of nature, he would do his best to help them; so this
day he organized an expedition to a low mountain about two miles away,
taking Matlack with him as guide, and inviting the two young men to join
him. They had assented because no good reason for declining had presented
itself, and because Phil Matlack earnestly urged them to come along and
let him show them what a real forest tramp was like. Before his recent
talk with Peter Sadler, Phil would not have dared to go out into the woods
in company with the bicycle man.
The two ladies were perfectly willing to remain in camp under the charge
of Martin, who was capable of defending them against any possible danger;
and as the bishop had agreed to take charge of Camp Roy during the absence
of its occupants, Mr. Archibald planned for a whole day's tramp, the first
he had taken since they went into camp.
When Martin's morning work was done he approached the shady spot where the
two ladies had established themselves, and offered to continue his lessons
in fish-flying if Miss Dearborn so desired. But Miss Dearborn did not wish
to take any lessons to-day. She would rest and stay with Mrs. Archibald.
Even the elder lady did not care to fish that morning. The day was hot and
the shade was grateful.
Martin walked away dissatisfied. In his opinion, there had never been a
day more suitable for angling; this was a day which would be free from
interruptions, either from two young fellows who knew nothing about real
game-fishing, or from Matlack, who always called him away to do something
when he was most interested in his piscatorial pedagogics. This was a day
when he could stand by that lovely girl, give her the rod, show her how to
raise it, wave it, and throw it, and sometimes even touch her hand as he
took it from her or gave it back, watching her all the time with an
admiration and delight which no speckled trout or gamy black bass had ever
yet aroused in him, and all this without fear that a gentleman out on the
lake might possibly be observing them with the idea that he was more
interested in his work than the ordinary guide might be supposed to be.
But luck was against him, and Martin, who did not in the least consider
himself an ordinary guide, walked up and down in moody reflection, or
grimly threw himself upon the ground, gazing upward at the sky--not half
so blue as he was--but never walking or resting so far away that he could
not hear the first cry from her should snake, bear, dragon-fly, or danger
of any kind approach her.
To the ladies, about half an hour later, came the bishop, who, newly
shaved and brushed, wished them good-morning, and offered his services in
any manner which might be desired. If Mrs. Archibald wished to fish by the
side of the lake, he was at her service; but Mrs. Archibald did not care
to fish.
"This is a most charming day," said the bishop, removing his hat, "but I
suppose it is more charming to me because it is my last day here."
"And so you are really going to go?" said Mrs. Archibald, smiling.
"I suppose you think I am not likely to get there," said he, "but really I
have stayed here long enough, and for several reasons."
"Sit down," said Margery, "and tell us what they are. There is a nice
little rock with some moss on it."
The bishop promptly accepted the invitation and seated himself. As he did
so, Martin, at a little distance, scowled, folded his arms, and slightly
increased the length of his sentinel-like walk.
"Yes," said the bishop, brushing some pine leaves from his threadbare
trousers, "during the time that I have accepted the hospitality of those
young gentlemen I feel that I have in a great measure repaid them for
their kindness, but now I see that I shall become a burden and an expense
to them. In the first place, I eat a great deal more than both of them put
together, so that the provisions they brought with them will be exhausted
much sooner than they expected. I am also of the opinion that they are
getting tired of eating in their own camp, but as I make a point of
preparing the meals at stated hours, of course they feel obliged to
partake of them."
"By which you mean, I suppose," said Mrs. Archibald, "that if they had not
you to cook for them they would be apt to take a good many meals with us,
as they did when they first came, and which would be cheaper and
pleasanter."
"I beg, madam," said the bishop, quickly, "that you will not think that
they have said anything of the sort. I simply inferred, from remarks I
have heard, that one of them, at least, is very much of the opinion you
have just stated; therefore I feel that I cannot be welcome much longer in
Camp Roy. There is also another reason why I should go now. I have a
business prospect before me."
"I am glad to hear that," said Mrs. Archibald. "Is it a good one?"
"I think it is," said the bishop. "I have been considering it earnestly,
and the more I fix my mind upon it the greater appear its advantages. I
don't mind in the least telling you what it is. A gentleman who is
acquainted with my family and whom I have met two or three times, but not
recently, possesses a very fine estate some thirty miles south of this
place. He has been in Europe for some time, but is expected to return to
his country mansion about the end of this week. It is my purpose to offer
myself to him in the capacity of private librarian. I do not think it will
be difficult to convince him that I have many qualifications for the
situation."
"Has he so many books that he needs a librarian?" asked Margery.
"No," said the bishop, "I have no reason to suppose that he has any more
books than the ordinary country gentleman possesses, but he ought to have.
He has a very large income, and is now engaged in establishing for his
family what is intended to become, in time, an ancestral mansion. It is
obvious to any one of intelligence that such a grand mansion would not be
complete without a well-selected library, and that such a library could
not be selected or arranged by an ordinary man of affairs. Consequently,
unless he has a competent person to perform this duty for him, his
library, for a long time, will be insignificant. When I shall put the
question before him, I have no doubt that he will see and appreciate the
force and value of my statements. Such a position will suit me admirably.
I shall ask but little salary, but it will give me something far better
than money--an opportunity to select from the book marts of the whole
world the literature in which I delight. Consequently, you will see that
it is highly desirable that I should be on hand when this gentleman
arrives upon his estate."
With a look of gentle pity Mrs. Archibald gazed at the smooth round face
of the bishop, flushed with the delights of anticipation and brightened by
the cheery smile which nearly always accompanied his remarks. "And is that
your only prospect?" she said. "I don't want to discourage you, but it
seems to me that if you had some regular business--and you are not too old
to learn something of the sort--it would be far better for you than trying
to obtain the mythical position you speak of. I see that you are a man of
intelligence and education, and I believe that you would succeed in almost
any calling to which you would apply yourself with earnestness and
industry. You must excuse me for speaking so plainly, but I am much older
than you are and I do it for your good."
"Madam," exclaimed the bishop, radiant with grateful emotion, "I thank you
from the bottom of my heart for what you have said. I thank you for your
appreciation of me and for the generous motive of your words, but, to be
frank with you, I am not suited to a calling such as you have mentioned. I
have many qualities which I well know would promote my fortunes were they
properly applied, but that application is difficult, for the reason that
my principal mental characteristic is indefiniteness. When but a little
child I was indefinite. Nobody knew what I was going to do, or how I would
turn out; no one has since known, and no one knows now. In whatever way I
have turned my attention in my endeavors to support myself, I have been
obstructed and even appalled by the definiteness of the ordinary pursuits
of life. Now the making of a private library is in itself an indefinite
occupation. It has not its lines, its rules, its limitations. But do not
think, kind lady, that I shall always depend upon such employment. Should
I obtain it, I should hold it only so long as it would be necessary, and
it may be necessary for but a little while. Do you care to hear of my
permanent prospects?" said he, looking from one lady to the other.
"Certainly," said Margery, "we would like to hear all you have to tell."
"Well then," said the bishop, folding his arms and smiling effusively, but
with a gentle curbing of his ordinary cheerfulness, "I will inform you
that I have an uncle who is a man of wealth and well on in years.
Unfortunately, or fortunately it may be, this uncle greatly dislikes me.
He objects so strongly to my methods of thought and action, and even to my
physical presence, that he cannot bear to hear me speak or even to look at
me, and the last time I was in his company, about four years ago, he told
me that he would leave me a legacy on condition that he should never hear
from me or see me again. He promised to make the proper provision in his
will immediately, but declared, and I know he will keep his word, that if
he ever received a letter from me or even saw me or heard my voice he
would instantly strike out that clause. I appreciated and respected his
feelings, and accepted the condition. From that moment I have not written
to him, nor shall I ever write to him, and I shall never go near him so
long as he is alive. As I said, he is of advanced age, and it is
impossible that he can long survive. When his demise takes place my
circumstances will, I believe, be satisfactory."
"Did your uncle say how much he would leave you?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
"No, madam," returned the other, "he did not, but I feel sure that the sum
will be measured by his satisfaction in knowing that his existence is
entirely freed from me."
"Really," said Mrs. Archibald, "there is nothing about you so indefinite
as your prospects."
"And it seems horrible to me," said Margery, "to be hoping that some one
may die in order that you may be better off, for, as you want money so
much, you must hope that your uncle will die."
The bishop smiled and rose. "And now," said he, "I suppose I must go to
prepare the dinner at Camp Roy. There is nobody but myself to eat it, but
I have assumed the duty, and it must be performed. Good-morning. By your
leave, I shall look in upon you again."
Mrs. Archibald had a mind to ask him to stay and dine with them, but
having noticed an unfriendly expression on the face of Martin when his
gloomy walk brought him in her direction, she thought it would not be wise
to do so.
CHAPTER XI
MARGERY TAKES THE OARS
After dinner Mrs. Archibald prepared herself for a nap, the most
delightful thing she could think of during the warm hours of such a day.
Margery, after seeing the elder lady comfortably disposed in the shady
sitting-room of the cabin, went out-of-doors with no doubt in her mind as
to what would be for her the most delightful thing to do. She would take a
row on the lake all by herself.
She went down to the boat, which was partly drawn up on the beach and
fastened to a heavy stake. But when she reached it she was disgusted to
find that the chain was secured to the stake by a padlock. The oars were
in the boat, and she could easily have pushed it into the water, but she
could not set it free without the key to the padlock.
"I do believe," she exclaimed, "that the will of that horrid Mr. Sadler is
like gas. It goes everywhere, even to the tops of the houses and under the
beds." But she did not give up her intention. She tried to detach the
chain from the boat, but finding this impossible, she thought of going for
Martin. Perhaps he might have a key. This idea, however, she quickly put
aside. If he had a key, and gave it to her, she might get him into
trouble, and, besides, she did not believe that he would let her go alone,
and in any other way she did not wish to go. Standing with her pretty
brows knit, and one heel deep in the soft ground into which she had
stamped it, she heard approaching footsteps, and turning, saw the bishop.
He came forward with a buoyant step.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Dearborn?" he said. "Do you wish
to go out on the lake? Do you want some one to row you?"
"Yes and no," said Margery. "I want to go out in the boat, and I don't
want anybody to row me. But that chain is fastened with an abominable
padlock, and I cannot launch the boat."
"One of your guides is here," said he. "Perhaps I can get a key from
him."
"No, no," said Margery, quickly; "he must not know about it. There is a
Sadler law against it, and he is employed by Sadler."
"It is very securely fastened," said the bishop, examining the lock and
chain. "It is the work of the guide Matlack, I have no doubt. But, Miss
Dearborn," said he, with a bright smile, "there is a boat at Camp Roy.
That is not locked, and I can bring it here in twenty minutes."
"No," said Margery; "I don't want that boat. I've seen it. It is a clumsy
old thing, and, besides, it leaks. I want this one. This is just the kind
of boat I want to row. It is too bad! If I could get off now there would
be nobody to hinder me, for Martin is washing the dinner dishes, or doing
something of that kind, and whenever he does house-work he always keeps
himself out of sight."
The bishop examined the stake. It was a stout little tree trunk driven
deep into the ground and projecting about five feet above the surface,
with the chain so wrapped around it that it was impossible to force it up
or down. Seizing the stake near the top, the bishop began to push it
backward and forward, and being a man of great strength, he soon loosened
it so much that, stooping, he was able to pull it from the ground.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Margery. "It came up just like pulling a tooth."
"Yes," said the radiant bishop, "the good Matlack may be very careful
about fastening a boat, but I think I have got the better of him this
time; and now I will put the stake, chain and all, in the bow. That is the
best way of disposing of them. Are you sure that you prefer going alone? I
shall be delighted to row you if you wish me to."
"Oh no," said Margery; "I am just wild to row myself, and I want to hurry
and get off for fear Martin will be coming down here."
"Are you sure you understand rowing and the management of a boat?" he
asked.
"Oh yes," she replied, "I can row; of course I can. I will get in, and
then you can push off the boat."
"Allow me," said the bishop. But before he could reach her to help her,
Margery stepped quickly into the boat and was about to seat herself.
"If you will take the seat next to the stern," said the bishop, holding
the boat so that it would be steady, "I think that will be better. Then
the weight of the stake in the bow will put the boat on an even keel."
"All right," said Margery, accepting his suggestion and seating herself.
"Now just wait until I get the oars into the rowlocks, and then you can
push me off."
"Which way do you intend to row?" asked the bishop.
"Oh, I shall go down towards the lower end of the lake, because that way
there are more bushes along the banks and Martin will be less apt to see
me. If I go the other way I will be in plain sight of the camp, and he may
think he ought to do something--fire a gun across my bows to bring me to,
maybe, as they do at sea."
"Hardly," said the bishop, "but let me advise you not to go very far from
the shore, so that if you feel tired you can come in easily, and if you
will allow me I will walk down the shore in the direction in which you
intend to row."
"Oh, I am not going to get tired," said she. "I could row all day. It is
splendid to be in a boat all by myself and have the whole management of
it. Now please push me off."
With some reluctance, but with a sincere desire to make the young girl
happy, which could not be overcome by prudence--at least by such prudence
as he possessed--the bishop, with a strong, steady push, sent the boat
well out on the surface of the water.
"That was beautifully done," Margery called back to him. "Now I have room
enough to turn around without any trouble at all."
She turned the boat about with its bow towards the lower end of the lake,
but it was not done without trouble. "I have not rowed for a good while,"
she said, "but I am getting used to the oars already. Now then, I'm off,"
and she began to pull with a strength which, had it been suitably paired
with skill, would have made her an excellent amateur oarswoman. But the
place of skill was supplied by enthusiasm and determination. Once or twice
an oar slipped from the rowlock and she nearly went over backward, and
several times one of the blades got under the water with the flat side up,
so that she had difficulty in getting it out. She raised her oars much too
high in the air, but she counterbalanced this by sinking them very deep
into the water. But she got on, and although her course was somewhat
irregular, its general trend was in the direction desired.
The bishop walked along the bank, keeping as near to the water as he
could. Sometimes masses of shrubbery shut off all view of the lake, and
then there would be an open space where he would stop and watch the boat.
"Please keep near the shore, Miss Dearborn," he called, "that will be
better, I think, and it is certainly more shady and pleasant than farther
out."
"I know what you mean," cried Margery, pulling away in high good-humor,
"you think it is safer near the shore; but I am not going to row very far
this time, and after a little while I may pull the boat in and rest for a
time before starting back," and then she rowed on with renewed energy.
The next time the bishop was able to hail the boat, it was at a point
where he was obliged to push his way through the bushes in order to see
out upon the lake.
"Miss Dearborn," he called, "I think you are a great deal too far from
shore, and you must be getting very tired and hot. Your face is greatly
flushed. I will hurry along and see if I can find a good place for you to
stop and cool yourself."
"I am all right," cried Margery, resting on her oars. "I get along very
well, only the boat doesn't steer properly. I think it is because of the
weight of that stick in the bow. I suppose I cannot get rid of it?"
"Oh no!" cried the bishop, in alarm; "please don't think of it! But if you
touch shore at the first open space, I think I can arrange it better for
you."
"Very good," said she; "you go ahead and find such a place, and I will
come in."
"If you touch shore," said the bishop to himself, "you don't go out again
in that boat alone! You don't know how to row at all."
The bishop ran a hundred yards or more before he found a place at which a
boat could be beached. It was not a very good place, but if he could reach
out and seize the bow, that would be enough for him. He was strong enough
to pull that boat over a paved street.
As he looked out over the water he saw that Margery had progressed
considerably since he had seen her last, but she was still farther from
shore than before.
"Row straight towards me!" he shouted. "Here is a fine landing-place, cool
and shady."
She looked around and managed to turn the boat's head in his direction.
Then she rowed hard, pulling and splashing, and evidently a little tired.
She was strong, but this unusual exercise was a trial to her muscles.
Perhaps, too, she felt that the bishop was watching her, and that made her
a little nervous, for she could not help being aware that she was not
handling the oars as well as when she started out. With a strong pull at
her right oar to turn the boat inland, she got her left oar tangled
between the water and the boat, so it seemed to her, and lost her hold of
it. In a moment it was overboard and floating on the lake.
Leaning over the side of the boat, she made a grasp at the oar, but it was
too far for her to reach it; and then, by a spasmodic movement of the
other oar, the distance was increased.
The bishop's face grew pale. As he looked at her he saw that she was
moving away from the floating oar, and now he understood why she had
progressed so well. There was a considerable current in the lake which had
carried her along, and was now moving the heavy boat much faster than it
moved the oar. What should he tell her to do? If she could put her single
oar out at the stern, she might scull the boat; but he was sure she did
not understand sculling, and to try it she would have to stand up, and
this would be madness.
She now took the other oar from the rowlock, and was about to rise, when
the bishop shouted to her.
"What are you going to do?" he cried.
"I am going to the stern," she said, "to see if I cannot reach that oar
with this one. Perhaps I can pull it in."
"For Heaven's sake, don't do that!" he cried. "Don't stand up, or the boat
will tip, and you will fall overboard."
"But what can I do?" she called back. "I can't row with one oar."
"Try rowing a little on one side, and then on the other," said he.
"Perhaps you can bring in the boat in that way."
She followed his suggestion, but very awkwardly, and he saw plainly that
she was tired. Instead of approaching the shore, the boat continued to
float down the lake.
Margery turned again. "Bishop," she cried, "what shall I do? I must do
something, or I can't get ashore at all."
She did not look frightened; there was more of annoyance in her
expression, as if she thought it impertinent in fate to treat her in this
way, and she would not stand it.
"If I had thought of the current," said the bishop to himself, "I would
never have let her go out alone, and she can't be trusted in that boat
another minute longer. She will do something desperate." So saying, the
bishop took off his hat and threw it on the ground. Then he unbuttoned his
coat and began to take it off, but he suddenly changed his mind. Even in
that wilderness and under these circumstances he must appear respectable,
so he buttoned his coat again, hastily took off his shoes, and, without
hesitating, walked into the water until it was above his waist, and then
calling to Margery that he was coming to her, he began to swim out into
the lake. He did not strike out immediately for the boat, but directed his
course towards the floating oar. Turning his head frequently towards
Margery, he could see that she was sitting perfectly still, watching him,
and so he kept on with a good heart.
The bishop was a powerful swimmer, but he found great difficulty in making
his way through the water, on account of the extreme tightness of his
clothes. It seemed to him that his arms and legs were bandaged in splints,
as if he had been under a surgeon's care; but still he struck out as well
as he could, and in time reached the oar. Pushing this before him to the
boat, Margery took hold of it.
"You swim splendidly," said she. "You can climb in right here."
But the bishop knew better than that, and worked his way round to the
stern, and after holding on a little while to get his breath, he managed
to clamber into the boat.
"Was the water very cold?" said she.
On his replying that it was, she said she thought so because he seemed
stiff.
"Now, Miss Dearborn," said he, "I have made the stern seat very wet, but I
don't believe you will mind that, and if you will sit here I will take the
oars and row you in."
[Illustration: "BUT THE BISHOP KNEW BETTER"]
"Oh, I think I can do that myself," said Margery. "I am rested now, and I
am ever so much obliged to you for getting my oar for me."
Under almost any circumstances the bishop could smile, and now he smiled
at the ridiculousness of the idea of Margery's rowing that boat back
against the current, and with him in it.
"Indeed," said he, "I must insist. I shall freeze to death if I don't warm
myself by exercise." So, reaching out his hand, he assisted Margery to the
stern, and seating himself in her place, he took the oars, which she had
drawn in.
"I don't see why I could not make the boat go along that way," said she,
as they began to move steadily towards the camp. "I believe I could do it
if people would only let me practise by myself; but they always want to
show me how, and I hate to have anybody show me how. It is funny," she
continued, "that you seem so very wet all but your collar. That looks as
smooth and nice as if it had just come from the laundry."
The bishop laughed. "That is because it is gutta-percha," he said,
"intended for rough use in camp; but the rest of my habiliments were not
intended for wet weather."
"And you have no hat," said she. "Doesn't the sun hurt your head?"
"My head does feel a little warm," said he, "but I didn't want to row back
to the place where I left my hat. It was not a good landing-place, after
all. Besides," he said to himself, "I never thought of my hat or my
shoes."
CHAPTER XII
THE BISHOP ENGAGES THE ATTENTION OF THE GUIDES
When the boat touched the shore Margery ran to the cabin to assure Mrs.
Archibald of her safety, if she had been missed.
The bishop was sticking the stake in the hole from which he had pulled it,
when Martin came running to him.
"That's a pretty piece of business!" cried the young man. "If you wanted
to go out in the boat, why didn't you come to me for the key? You've got
no right to pull up the stakes we've driven down. That's the same thing as
stealing the boat. What's the matter? Did you tumble overboard? You must
be a pretty sort of an oarsman! If the ladies want to go out in the boat,
I am here to take them. I'd like you to understand that."
As has been said before, the bishop could smile under almost any
circumstances, and he smiled now, but at the same time his brow wrinkled,
which was not common when he smiled.
"I am going down to the shore to get my hat and shoes," he said, "and I
would like you to come along with me. I can't stand here and talk to
you."
"What do you want?" said Martin.
"Come along and see," said the bishop; "that is, if you are not afraid."
That was enough, and the young man walked behind him until they reached
the spot where the bishop had taken to the water. Then he stopped, and
explained to Martin all that had happened.
"Now," said he, "what have you got to say?"
Martin, now that he knew that the bishop had plunged into the water for
the sake of the beautiful Margery, was more jealously angry than when he
had supposed he had merely taken her out to row.
"I haven't anything to say," he answered, shortly, "except that parsons
had better attend to their own business, if they have any, and let young
ladies and boats alone."
"Oh, that's all, is it?" said the bishop, and with a quick step forward he
clutched the young man's arm with his right hand, while he seized his belt
with the other, and then with a great heave sent him out into the water
fully ten feet from the shore. With a splash like a dropped anchor Martin
disappeared from view, but soon arose, his head and shoulders above the
surface, where he stood for a moment, spluttering and winking and almost
dazed.
The bishop stood on the bank and smiled. "Did you fall overboard?" said
he. "You must be a pretty sort of a boatman!"
Without replying, Martin began to wade ashore.
"Come on," said the bishop; "if you can't get up the bank, I'll help
you."
But Martin needed no help; he scrambled to the bank, shook himself, and
then advanced upon the bishop, fire in his eye and his fist clinched.
"Stop, young man," said the other. "It would not be fair to you if I did
not tell you that I am a boxer and a heavy-weight, and that I threw you
into the water because I didn't want to damage your face and eyes. You
were impertinent, but I am satisfied, and the best thing you can do is to
go and change your clothes before any one sees you in that plight. You are
better off than I am, because I have no clothes with which to make a
change." So saying, he sat down and began to put on his shoes.
Martin stood for a moment and looked at the bishop, he thought of Margery
and a possible black eye, and then he walked as fast as he could to his
tent to get some dry clothes. He was very wet, he was very hot, he was
very angry, and what made him more angry than anything else was a respect
for the bishop which was rising in him in spite of all his efforts to keep
it down.
When Mr. Archibald and his party came back to camp late in the afternoon,
Margery, who had already told her story to Mrs. Archibald, told it to each
of the others. Mr. Archibald was greatly moved by the account of the
bishop's bravery. He thoroughly appreciated the danger to which Margery
had been exposed. There were doubtless persons who could be trusted so sit
quietly in a little boat with only one oar, and to float upon a lake out
of sight and sound of human beings until another boat could be secured and
brought to the rescue, but Margery was not one of these persons. Her
greatest danger had been that she was a child of impulse. He went
immediately to Camp Roy to see the bishop and express his gratitude, for
no matter how great the foolish good-nature of the man had been, his brave
rescue of the girl was all that could be thought of now.
[Illustration: "WITH A GREAT HEAVE SENT HIM OUT INTO THE WATER"]
He found the bishop in bed, Mr. Clyde preparing the supper, and Mr.
Raybold in a very bad humor.
"It's the best place for me," said the bishop, gayly, from under a heavy
army blanket. "My bed is something like the carpets in Queen Elizabeth's
time, and this shelter-tent is not one which can be called commodious, but
I shall stay here until morning, and then I am sure I shall be none the
worse for my dip into the cold lake."
As Mr. Archibald had seen the black garments of the bishop hanging on a
bush as he approached the tent, he was not surprised to find their owner
in bed.
"No," said the bishop, when Mr. Archibald had finished what he had to say,
"there is nothing to thank me for. It was a stupid thing to launch a young
girl out upon what, by some very natural bit of carelessness, might have
become to her the waters of eternity, and it was my very commonplace duty
to get her out of the danger into which I had placed her; so this, my dear
sir, is really all there is to say about the matter."
Mr. Archibald differed with him for about ten minutes, and then returned
to his camp.
Phil Matlack was also affected by the account of the rescue, and he
expressed his feelings to Martin.
"He pulled up the stake, did he?" said Phil. "Well, I'll make him pull up
his stakes, and before he goes I've a mind to teach him not to meddle with
other people's affairs."
"If I were you," said Martin, "I wouldn't try to teach him anything."
"You think he is too stupid to learn?" said Matlack, getting more and more
angry at the bishop's impertinent and inexcusable conduct. "Well, I've
taught stupid people before this."
"He's a bigger man than you are," said Martin.
Matlack withdrew the knife from the loaf of bread he was cutting, and
looked at the young man.
"Bigger?" said he, scornfully. "What's that got to do with it? A load of
hay is bigger than a crow-bar, but I guess the crow-bar would get through
the hay without much trouble."
"You'd better talk about a load of rocks," said Martin. "I don't think
you'd find it easy to get a crow-bar through them."
Matlack looked up inquiringly. "Has he been thrashing you?" he asked.
"No, he hasn't," said Martin, sharply.
"You didn't fight him, then?"
"No, I didn't," was the answer.
"Why didn't you? You were here to take charge of this camp and keep things
in order. Why didn't you fight him?"
"I don't fight that sort of a man," said Martin, with an air which, if it
were not disdainful, was intended to be.
Matlack gazed at him a moment in silence, and then went on cutting the
bread. "I don't understand this thing," he said to himself. "I must look
into it."
CHAPTER XIII
THE WORLD GOES WRONG WITH MR. RAYBOLD
The next morning Mr. Archibald started out, very early, on a fishing
expedition by himself. He was an enthusiastic angler, and had not greatly
enjoyed the experience of the day before. He did not object to shooting if
there were any legitimate game to shoot, and he liked to tramp through the
mountain wilds under the guidance of such a man as Matlack; but to keep
company all day with Raybold, who, in the very heart of nature, talked
only of the gossip of the town, and who punctuated his small talk by
intermittent firing at everything which looked like a bird or suggested
the movements of an animal, was not agreeable to him. Clyde was a better
fellow, and Mr. Archibald liked him, but he was young and abstracted, and
the interest which clings around an abstracted person who is young is
often inconsiderable, so he determined for one day at least to leave Sir
Cupid to his own devices, for he could not spend all his time defending
Margery from amatory dawdle. For this one day he would leave the task to
his wife.
That day Mr. Raybold was in a moody mood. Early in the morning he had
walked to Sadler's, his object being to secure from the trunk which he had
left there a suit of ordinary summer clothes. He had come to think that
perhaps his bicycle attire, although very suitable for this sort of life,
failed to make him as attractive in the eyes of youth and beauty as he
might be if clothed in more becoming garments. It was the middle of the
afternoon before he returned, and as he carried a large package, he went
directly to his own camp, and in about half an hour afterwards he came
over to Camp Rob dressed in a light suit, which improved his general
appearance very much.
In his countenance, however, there was no improvement whatever, for he
looked more out of humor than when he had set out, and when he saw that
Mrs. Archibald was sitting alone in the shade, reading, and that at a
considerable distance Harrison Clyde was seated by Margery, giving her a
lesson in drawing upon birch bark, or else taking a lesson from her, his
ill-humor increased.
"It is too bad," said he, taking a seat by Mrs. Archibald without being
asked; "everything seems to go wrong out here in these woods. It is an
unnatural way to live, anyhow, and I suppose it serves us right. When I
went to Sadler's I found a letter from my sister Corona, who says she
would like me to make arrangements for her to come here and camp with us
for a time. Now that suits me very well indeed. My sister Corona is a very
fine young woman, and I think it would be an excellent thing to have two
young ladies here instead of one."
"Yes," said Mrs. Archibald, "that might be very pleasant. I should be glad
for Margery to have a companion of her own sex."
"I understand precisely," said Raybold, nodding his head sagaciously; "of
her own sex. Yes, I see your drift, and I agree with you absolutely. There
is a little too much of that thing over there, and I don't wonder you are
annoyed."
"I did not say I was annoyed," said Mrs. Archibald, rather surprised.
"No," he answered, "you did not say so, but I can read between the lines,
even spoken lines. Now when I heard that my sister wanted to come out
here," he continued, "at first I did not like it, for I thought she might
be some sort of a restraint upon me; but when I considered the matter
further, I became very much in favor of it, and I sent a telegram by the
stage telling her to come immediately, and that everything would be ready
for her. My sister has a sufficient income of her own, and she likes to
have everything suited to her needs. I am different. I am a man of the
world, and although I do not always care to conform to circumstances, I
can generally make circumstances conform to me. As Shakespeare says, 'The
world is my pottle, and I stir my spoon.' You must excuse my quoting, but
I cannot help it. My life work is to be upon the stage, and where one's
mind is, there will his words be also."
Mr. Raybold was now in a much more pleasant mood than when he came to sit
in the shade with Mrs. Archibald. He was talking; he had found some one
who listened and who had very little to say for herself.
"Consequently," he remarked, "I ordered from Mr. Sadler the very best tent
that he had. It has two compartments in it, and it is really as
comfortable as a house, and as my sister wrote that she wished a female
attendant, not caring to have her meals cooked by boys--a very flippant
expression, by-the-way--I have engaged for her a she-guide."
"A what?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
"A person," said he, "who is a guide of the female gender. She was the
wife of a hunter who was accidentally shot, Sadler told me, by a young man
who was with him on a gunning expedition. I told Sadler that it was
reprehensible to allow such fellows to have guns, but he said that they
are not as dangerous now as they used to be. This is because the guides
have learned to beware of them, I suppose. This woman has lived in the
woods and knows all about camp life, and Sadler says there could not be a
better person found to attend a young lady in camp. So I engaged her, and
I must say she charged just as much as if she were a man."
"Why shouldn't she," said Mrs. Archibald, "if she is just as good?"
To this remark Raybold paid no attention. "I will tell you," he said,
"confidentially, of course, and I think you have as much reason to be
interested in it as I have, why I came to view with so much favor my
sister's coming here. She is a very attractive young woman, and I think
she cannot fail to interest Clyde, and that, of course, will be of
advantage to your niece."
"She is not my niece, you know," said Mrs. Archibald.
"Well," said he, "it is all the same. 'Let it be a bird wing or a flower,
so it pleases'--a quotation which is also Avonian--and if Clyde likes
Corona he will let Miss Dearborn alone. That's the sort of man he is."
"And in that case," said Mrs. Archibald, "I suppose you would not be
unwilling to provide Margery with company."
"Madam," said the young man, leaning forward and fixing his eyes upon the
ground, and then turning them upon her without moving his face towards
her, "with me all that is a different matter. I may have occasion later to
speak to you and your husband upon the subject of Miss Dearborn."
"In which case," said Mrs. Archibald, quickly, "I am sure that my husband
will be very glad to speak to you. But why, may I ask, were you so
disturbed when you came here, just now? You said the world was going
wrong."
"I declare," said he, knitting his brows and clapping one hand on his
knee, "I actually forgot! The world wrong? I should say it was wrong! My
sister can't come, and I don't know what to do about it."
"Can't come?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
"Of course not," said he, all his ill-humor having returned. "That fellow,
the bishop, is in our camp and in Clyde's bed. Clyde foolishly gave him
his bed because he said the cook-tent was too cramped for a man to stay in
it all day."
"Why need he stay?" asked Mrs. Archibald. "Has he taken cold? Is he
sick?"
"No indeed," said Raybold. "If he were sick we might send for a cart and
have him taken to Sadler's, but the trouble is worse than that. His
clothes, in which he foolishly jumped into the water, have shrunken so
much that he cannot get them on, and as he has no others, he is obliged to
stay in bed."
"But surely something can be done," said Mrs. Archibald.
"No," he interrupted, "nothing can be done. The clothes have dried, and if
you could see them as they hang up on the bushes, you would understand why
that man can never get into them again. The material is entirely
unsuitable for out-door life. Clyde proposes that we shall lend him
something, but there are no clothes in this party into which such a
sausage of a man could get himself. So there he is, and there, I suppose,
he will remain indefinitely; and I don't want to bring my sister to a camp
with a permanently occupied hospital bed in it. As soon as I agreed to
Corona's coming I determined to bounce that man, but now--" So saying, Mr.
Raybold rose, folded his arms, and knit his brows, and as he did so he
glanced towards the spot where Margery and Clyde had been sitting, and
perceived that the latter had departed, probably to get some more birch
bark; and so, with a nod to Mrs. Archibald, he sauntered away, bending his
steps, as it were accidentally, in the direction of the young lady left
alone.
When Mr. Archibald heard, that evening, of the bishop's plight and
Raybold's discomfiture, he was amused, but also glad to know there was an
opportunity for doing something practical for the bishop. He was beginning
to like the man, in spite of his indefiniteness, so he went to see the
bedridden prelate who was neither sick nor clerical, and with very little
trouble induced him to take a few general measurements of his figure.
"It is so good of you," said the delighted recumbent, "that I shall not
say a word, but step aside in deference to your conscience, whose
encomiums will far transcend anything I can say. You will pardon me, I am
sure, if I make my measurements liberal. The cost will not be increased,
and to live, move, and breathe in a suit of clothes which is large enough
for me is a joy which I have not known for a long time. Shoes, did you
say, sir? Truly this is generosity supereminent."
"Yes," said Mr. Archibald, laughing, "and you also shall have a new hat. I
will fit you out completely, and if this helps you to make a new and a
good start in life, I shall be greatly gratified."
"Sir," said the bishop, the moisture of genuine gratitude in his eyes,
"you are doing, I think, far more good than you can imagine, and pardon me
if I suggest, since you are going to get me a hat, that it be not of
clerical fashion. If everything is to be new, I should like everything
different, and I am certain the cost will be less."
"All right," said Mr. Archibald. "I will now make a list of what you need,
and I will write to one of my clerks, who will procure everything."
When Mr. Archibald went back to his camp he met Raybold, stalking moodily.
Having been told what had been done for the bishop's relief, the young man
was astonished.
"A complete outfit, and for him? I would not have dreamed of it; and
besides, it is of no use; it must be days before the clothes arrive, and
my sister wishes to come immediately."
"Do you suppose," exclaimed Mr. Archibald, "that I am doing this for the
sake of your sister? I am doing it for the man himself."
When Mr. Archibald told his wife of this little interview they both
laughed heartily.
"If Mr. Raybold's sister," said she, "is like him, I do not think we shall
care to have her here; but sisters are often very different from their
brothers. However, the bishop need not prevent her coming. If his clothes
do not arrive before she does, I am sure there could be no objection to
her tent being set up for a time in some of the open space in our camp,
and then we shall become sooner acquainted with her; if she is a suitable
person, I shall be very glad indeed for Margery to have a companion."
"All right," said Mr. Archibald; "let her pitch her tent where she
pleases. I am satisfied."
CHAPTER XIV
THE ASSERTION OF INDIVIDUALITY
It was a week after her brother had sent her his telegram before Miss
Corona Raybold arrived at Camp Rob, with her tent, her outfit, and her
female guide. Mrs. Archibald had been surprised that she did not appear
sooner, for, considering Mr. Raybold's state of mind, she had supposed
that his sister had wished to come at the earliest possible moment.
"But," said Raybold, in explaining the delay, "Corona is very different
from me. In my actions 'the thunder's roar doth crowd upon the lightning's
heels,' as William has told us."
"Where in Shakespeare is that?" asked Mrs. Archibald.
Mr. Raybold bent his brow. "For the nonce," said he, "I do not recall the
exact position of the lines." And after that he made no more Avonian
quotations to Mrs. Archibald.
The arrival of the young lady was, of course, a very important event, and
even Mr. Archibald rowed in from the lake when he saw her caravan
approaching, herself walking in the lead. She proved to be a young person
of medium height, slight, and dressed in a becoming suit of dark blue. Her
hair and eyes were dark, her features regular and of a classic cut, and
she wore eye-glasses. Her manner was quiet, and at first she appeared
reserved, but she soon showed that if she wished to speak she could talk
very freely. She wore an air of dignified composure, but was affable, and
very attentive to what was said to her.
Altogether she made in a short time an extremely favorable impression upon
Mr. and Mrs. Archibald, and in a very much less time an extremely
unfavorable impression upon Margery.
Miss Raybold greeted everybody pleasantly, even informing Matlack that she
had heard of him as a famous guide, and after thanking Mr. and Mrs.
Archibald for their permission to set up her tent on the outskirts of
their camp, she proceeded to said tent, which was speedily made ready for
her.
Mrs. Perkenpine, her guide, was an energetic woman, and under her orders
the men who brought the baggage bestirred themselves wonderfully.
Just before supper, to which meal the Raybolds and Mr. Clyde had been
invited, the latter came to Mr. Archibald, evidently much troubled and
annoyed.
"I am positively ashamed to mention it to you, sir," he said, "but I must
tell you that Raybold has ordered the men who brought his sister's tent to
bring our tent over here and put it up near her's. I was away when this
was done, and I wish to assure you most earnestly that I had nothing to do
with it. The men have gone, and I don't suppose we can get it back
to-night."
Mr. Archibald opened his eyes very wide. "Your friend is certainly a
remarkable young man," said he, "but we must not have any bad feeling in
camp, so let everything remain as it is for to-night. I suppose he wished
to be near his sister, but at least he might have asked permission."
"I think," said Clyde, "that he did not so much care to be near his sister
as he did to be away from the bishop, who is now left alone in our little
shelter-tent."
Mr. Archibald laughed. "Well," said he, "he will come to no harm, and we
must see that he has some supper."
"Oh, I shall attend to that," said Clyde, "and to his breakfast also. And,
now I come to think of it, I believe that one reason Raybold moved our
tent over here was to get the benefit of his sister's cook. The bishop did
our cooking, you know, before he took to his bed."
That evening Miss Raybold joined the party around the camp-fire. She
declared that in the open air she did not in the least object to the use
of tobacco, and then she asked Mr. Archibald if his two guides came to the
camp-fire after their work was done.
"They do just as they please," was the answer. "Sometimes they come over
here and smoke their pipes a little in the background, and sometimes they
go off by themselves. We are very democratic here in camp, you know."
"I like that," said Miss Raybold, "and I will have Mrs. Perkenpine come
over when she has arranged the tent for the night. Arthur, will you go and
tell her?"
Her brother did not immediately rise to execute this commission. He hoped
that Mr. Clyde would offer to do the service, but the latter did not
improve the opportunity to make himself agreeable to the new-comer, and
Raybold did the errand.
Harrison Clyde was sitting by Margery, and Margery was giving a little
attention to what he said to her and a great deal of attention to Corona
Raybold.
"More self-conceit and a better-fitting dress I never saw," thought
Margery; "it's loose and easy, and yet it seems to fit perfectly, and I do
believe she thinks she is some sort of an upper angel who has condescended
to come down here just to see what common people are like."
Corona talked to Mr. Archibald. It was her custom always to talk to the
principal personage of a party.
"It gives me pleasure, sir," said she, "to meet with you and your wife. It
is so seldom that we find any one--" She was interrupted by Mrs.
Perkenpine, who stood behind her.
The she-guide was a large woman, apparently taller than Matlack. Her
sunburnt face was partly shaded by a man's straw hat, secured on her head
by strings tied under her chin. She wore a very plain gown, coarse in
texture, and of a light-blue color, which showed that it had been washed
very often. Her voice and her shoes, the latter well displayed by her
short skirt, creaked, but her gray eyes were bright, and moved about after
the manner of searchlights.
"Well," said she to Miss Raybold, "what do you want?"
Corona turned her head and placidly gazed up at her. "I simply wished to
let you know that you might join this company here if you liked. The two
men guides are coming, you see."
Mrs. Perkenpine glanced around the group. "Is there any hunting stories to
be told?" she asked.
Mr. Archibald laughed. "I don't know," he said, "but perhaps we may have
some. I am sure that Matlack here has hunting stories to tell."
Mrs. Perkenpine shook her head. "No, sir," said she; "I don't want none of
his stories. I've heard them all mostly two or three times over."
"I dare say you have," said Phil, seating himself on a fallen trunk, a
little back from the fire; "but you see, Mrs. Perkenpine, you are so
obstinate about keepin' on livin'. If you'd died when you was younger, you
wouldn't have heard so many of those stories."
"There's been times," said she, "when you was tellin' the story of the
bear cubs and the condensed milk, when I wished I had died when I was
younger, or else you had."
"Perhaps," said Miss Raybold, in a clear, decisive voice, "Mr. Matlack may
know hunting stories that will be new to all of us, but before he begins
them I have something which I would like to say."
"All right," said Mrs. Perkenpine, seating herself promptly upon the
ground; "if you're goin' to talk, I'll stay. I'd like to know what kind of
things you do talk about when you talk."
"I was just now remarking," said Miss Corona, "that I am very glad indeed
to meet with those who, like Mr. and Mrs. Archibald, are willing to set
their feet upon the modern usages of society (which would crowd us
together in a common herd) and assert their individuality."
Mr. Archibald looked at the speaker inquiringly.
"Of course," said she, "I refer to the fact that you and Mrs. Archibald
are on a wedding-journey."
At this remark Phil Matlack rose suddenly from the tree-trunk and Martin
dropped his pipe. Mr. Clyde turned his gaze upon Margery, who thereupon
burst out laughing, and then he looked in amazement from Mr. Archibald to
Mrs. Archibald and back again. Mrs. Perkenpine sat up very straight and
leaned forward, her hands upon her knees.
"Is it them two sittin' over there?" she said, pointing to Margery and
Clyde. "Are they on a honey-moon?"
"No!" exclaimed Arthur Raybold, in a loud, sharp voice. "What an
absurdity! Corona, what are you talking about?"
To this his sister paid no attention whatever. "I think," she said, "it
was a noble thing to do. An assertion of one's inner self is always noble,
and when I heard of this assertion I wished very much to know the man and
the woman who had so asserted themselves, and this was my principal reason
for determining to come to this camp."
"But where on earth," asked Mr. Archibald, "did you hear that we were on a
wedding-journey?"
"I read it in a newspaper," said Corona.
"I do declare," exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, "everything is in the
newspapers! I did think that we might settle down here and enjoy ourselves
without people talking about our reason for coming!"
"You don't mean to say," cried Mrs. Perkenpine, now on her feet, "that you
two elderly ones is the honey-mooners?"
"Yes," said Mr. Archibald, looking with amusement on the astonished faces
about him, "we truly are."
"Well," said the she-guide, seating herself, "if I'd stayed an old maid as
long as that, I think I'd stuck it out. But perhaps you was a widow,
mum?"
"No, indeed," cried Mr. Archibald; "she was a charming girl when I married
her. But just let me tell you how the matter stands," and he proceeded to
relate the facts of the case. "I thought," he said, in conclusion, turning
to Matlack, "that perhaps you knew about it, for I told Mr. Sadler, and I
supposed he might have mentioned it to you."
"No, sir," said Matlack, relighting his pipe, "he knows me better than
that. If he'd called me and said, 'Phil, I want you to take charge of a
couple that's goin' honey-moonin' about twenty-five years after they
married, and a-doin' it for somebody else and not for themselves,' I'd
said to him, 'They're lunatics, and I won't take charge of them.' And
Peter he knows I would have thought that and would have said it, and so he
did not mention the particulars to me. He knows that the only things that
I'm afraid of in this world is lunatics. 'Tisn't only what they might do
to me, but what they might do to themselves, and I won't touch 'em."
"I hope," said Mrs. Archibald, "that you don't consider us lunatics now
that you have heard why we are here."
"Oh no," said the guide; "I've found that you're regular common-sense
people, and I don't change my opinions even when I've heard particulars;
but if I'd heard particulars first, it would have been all up with my
takin' charge of you."
"And you knew it all the time?" said Clyde to Margery, speaking so that
she only could hear.
"I knew it," she said, "but I didn't think it worth talking about. Do you
know Mr. Raybold's sister? Do you like her?"
"I have met her," said Clyde; "but she is too lofty for me."
"What is there lofty about her?" said Margery.
"Well," said he, "she is lofty because she has elevated ideas. She goes in
for reform; and for pretty much all kinds, from what I have heard."
"I think she is lofty," remarked Margery, "because she is stuck-up. I
don't like her."
"It is so seldom," Corona now continued, "that we find people who are
willing to assert their individuality, and when they are found I always
want to talk to them. I suppose, Mr. Matlack, that your life is one long
assertion of individuality?"
"What, ma'am?" asked the guide.
"I mean," said she, "that when you are out alone in the wild forest,
holding in your hand the weapon which decides the question of life or
death for any living creature over whom you may choose to exercise your
jurisdiction, absolutely independent of every social trammel, every bond
of conventionalism, you must feel that you are a predominant whole and not
a mere integral part."
"Well," said Matlack, speaking slowly, "I may have had them feelin's, but
if I did they must have struck in, and not come out on the skin, like
measles, where I could see 'em."
"Corona," said her brother, in a peevish undertone, "what is the good of
all that? You're wasting your words on such a man."
His sister turned a mild steady gaze upon him. "I don't know any man but
you," she said, "on whom I waste my words."
"Is assertin' like persistin'?" inquired Mrs. Perkenpine at this point.
"The two actions are somewhat alike," said Corona.
"Well, then," said the she-guide, "I'm in for assertin'. When my husband
was alive there was a good many things I wanted to do, and when I wanted
to do a thing or get a thing I kept on sayin' so; and one day, after I'd
been keepin' on sayin' so a good while, he says to me, 'Jane,' says he,
'it seems to me that you're persistin'.' 'Yes,' says I, 'I am, and I
intend to be.' 'Then you are goin' to keep on insistin' on persistin'?'
says he. 'Yes,' says I; and then says he, 'If you keep on insistin' on
persistin' I'll be thinkin' of 'listin'.' By which he meant goin' into the
army as a regular, and gettin' rid of me; and as I didn't want to be rid
of him, I stopped persistin'; but now I wish I had persisted, for then
he'd 'listed, and most likely would be alive now, through not bein' shot
in the back by a city fool with a gun."
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Archibald to her husband, when they had
retired to their cabin, "that that young woman is going to be much of a
companion for Margery. I think she will prefer your society to that of any
of the rest of us. It is very plain that she thinks it is your
individuality which has been asserted."
"Well," said he, rubbing his spectacles with his handkerchief before
putting them away for the night, "don't let her project her individuality
into my sport. That's all I have to say."
CHAPTER XV
A NET OF COBWEBS TO CAGE A LION
"I think there's something besides a lunatic that you are afraid of," said
Martin to Matlack the next morning, as they were preparing breakfast.
"What's that?" inquired the guide, sharply.
"It's that fellow they call the bishop," said Martin. "He put a pretty
heavy slur on you. You drove down a stake, and you locked your boat to it,
and you walked away as big as if you were the sheriff of the county, and
here he comes along, and snaps his fingers at you and your locks, and, as
cool as a cucumber, he pulls up the stake and shoves out on the lake, all
alone by herself, a young lady that you are paid to take care of and
protect from danger."
"I want you to know, Martin Sanders," said Matlack, "that I don't pitch
into a man when he's in his bed, no matter what it is that made him take
to his bed or stay there. But I'll just say to you now, that when he gets
up and shows himself, there'll be the biggest case of bounce in these
parts that you ever saw."
"Bounce!" said Martin to himself, as he turned away. "I have heard so much
of it lately that I'd like to see a little."
Matlack also communed with himself. "He's awful anxious to get up a
quarrel between me and the parson," he thought. "I wonder if he was too
free with his tongue and did get thrashed. He don't show no signs of it,
except he's so concerned in his mind to see somebody do for the parson
what he ain't able to do himself. But I'll find out about it! I'll thrash
that fellow in black, and before I let him up I'll make him tell me what
he did to Martin. I'd do a good deal to get hold of something that would
take the conceit out of that fellow."
Mr. Arthur Raybold was a deep-minded person, and sometimes it was
difficult for him, with the fathoming apparatus he had on hand, to
discover the very bottom of his mind. Now, far below the surface, his
thoughts revolved. He had come to the conclusion that he would marry
Margery. In the first place, he was greatly attracted by her, and again he
considered it would be a most advantageous union. She was charming to look
upon, and her mind was so uncramped by conventionalities that it could
adapt itself to almost any sphere to which she might direct it. He
expected his life-work to be upon the stage, and what an actress Miss
Dearborn would make if properly educated--as he could educate her! With
this most important purpose in view, why should he waste his time? The
Archibalds could not much longer remain in camp. They had limited their
holiday to a month, and that was more than half gone. He must strike now.
The first thing to do was to get Clyde out of the way; then he would speak
to Mr. Archibald and ask for authority to press his suit, and he would
press that suit as few men on earth, he said to himself, would be able to
press it. What girl could deny herself to him when he came to her clad not
only with his own personal attributes, but with the fervor of a Romeo, the
intellectuality of a Hamlet, and the force of an Othello?
The Clyde part of the affair seemed very simple; as his party would of
course have their own table Clyde would see his sister at every meal, and
as Corona did not care to talk to him, and must talk to somebody, she
would be compelled to talk to Clyde, and if she talked to Clyde and looked
at him as she always did when she talked to people, he did not see how he
could help being attracted by her, and when once that sort of thing began
the Margery-field would be open to him.
He excused himself that morning for hurriedly leaving the breakfast-table
by saying that he wished to see Mr. Archibald before he started out
fishing.
He found that gentleman talking to Matlack. "Can I see you alone, sir?"
said Raybold. "I have something of importance I wish to say to you."
"Very good," said the other, "for I have something I wish to say to you,"
and they retired towards the lake.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Archibald.
"It is this," said Raybold, folding his arms as he spoke. "I am a man of
but few words. When I have formed a purpose I call upon my actions to
express it rather than my speech. I will not delay, therefore, to say to
you that I love your ward, and my sole object in seeking this interview is
to ask your permission to pay my addresses to her. That permission given,
I will attend to the rest."
"After you have dropped your penny in the slot," remarked Mr. Archibald.
"I must say," he continued, "that I am rather surprised at the nature of
your communication. I supposed you were going to explain your somewhat
remarkable conduct in bringing your tent into my camp without asking my
permission or even speaking to me about it; but as what you have said is
of so much more importance than that breach of good manners I will let the
latter drop. But why did you ask my permission to address Miss Dearborn?
Why didn't you go and do it just as you brought your tent here? Did you
think that if you had a permit from me for that sort of sport you could
warn off trespassers?"
"It was something of that kind," said Raybold, "although I should not have
put it in that trifling way."
"Then I will remark," said Mr. Archibald, "that I know nothing of your
matrimonial availability, and I do not want to know anything about it. My
wife and I brought Miss Dearborn here to enjoy herself in the woods, not
to be sought in marriage by strangers. For the present I am her guardian,
and as such I say to you that I forbid you to make her a proposal of
marriage, or, indeed, to pay her any attentions which she may consider
serious. If I see that you do not respect my wishes in this regard, I
shall ask you to consider our acquaintance at an end, and shall dispense
with your visits to this camp. Have I spoken plainly?"
The knitted brows of Raybold were directed towards the ground. "You have
spoken plainly," he said, "and I have heard," and with a bow he walked
away.
As he approached his tent a smile, intended to be bitter, played about his
features.
"A net of cobwebs," he muttered, "to cage a lion!"
The weather had now grown sultry, the afternoon was very hot, and there
was a general desire to lie in the shade and doze. Margery's plans for a
siesta were a little more complicated than those of the others. She longed
to lie in a hammock under great trees, surrounded by the leafy screens of
the woodlands; to gaze at the blue sky through the loop-holes in the
towering branches above her, and to dream of the mysteries of the forest.
"Martin," said she, to the young guide, "is there a hammock among the
things we brought with us?"
His face brightened. "Of course there are hammocks," he said. "I wonder
none of you asked about them before."
"I never thought of it," said Margery. "I haven't had time for lounging,
and as for Aunt Harriet, she would not get into one for five dollars."
"Where shall I hang it?" he asked.
"Not anywhere about here. Couldn't you find some nice place in the woods,
not far away, but where I would not be seen, and might have a little time
to myself? If you can, come and tell me quietly where it is."
"I know what she means," said Martin to himself. "It's a shame that she
should be annoyed. I can find you just such a place," he said to Margery.
"I will hang the hammock there, and I will take care that nobody else
shall know where it is." And away he went, bounding heart and foot.
In less than a quarter of an hour he returned. "It's all ready, Miss
Dearborn," he said. "I think I have found a place you will like. It's
generally very close in the woods on a day like this, but there is a
little bluff back of us, and at the end of it the woods are open, so that
there is a good deal of air there."
"That is charming," said Margery, and with a book in her hand she
accompanied Martin.
They were each so interested in the hammock business that they walked side
by side, instead of one following the other, as had been their custom
heretofore.
"Oh, this is a delightful place!" cried Margery. "I can lie here and look
down into the very heart of the woods; it is a solitude like Robinson
Crusoe's island."
"I am glad you like it," said Martin. "I thought you would. I have put up
the hammock strongly, so that you need not be afraid of it; but if there
is any other way you want it I can change it. There is not a thing here
that can hurt you, and if a little snake should happen along it would be
glad to get away from you if you give it a chance. But if you should be
frightened or should want anything you have only to call for me. I shall
hear you, for I shall be out in the open just at the edge of the woods."
"Thank you very much," said Margery; "nothing could be nicer than this,
and you did it so quickly."
He smiled with pleasure as he answered that he could have done it more
quickly if it had been necessary; and then he retired slowly, that she
might call him back if she thought of anything she wanted.
Margery lay in the hammock, gazing out over the edge of the bluff into the
heart of the woods; her closed book was in her hand, and the gentle breeze
that shook the leaves around her and disturbed the loose curls about her
face was laden with a moist spiciness which made her believe it had been
wandering through some fragrant foliage of a kind unknown to her, far away
in the depths of the forest, where she could not walk on account of the
rocks, the great bushes, and the tall ferns. It was lovely to lie and
watch the leafy boughs, which seemed as if they were waving their
handkerchiefs to the breeze as it passed.
"I don't believe," she said to herself, as she cast her eyes upward
towards an open space above her, "that if I were that little white cloud
and could float over the whole world and drop down on any spot I chose
that I could drop into a lovelier place than this." Then she brought her
gaze again to earth, and her mind went out between the shadowy trunks
which stretched away and away and away towards the mysteries of the
forest, which must always be mysteries to her because it was impossible
for her to get to them and solve them--that is, if she remained awake. But
if Master Morpheus should happen by, she might yet know everything--for
there are no mysteries which cannot be solved in dreams.
Master Morpheus came, but with him came also Arthur Raybold; not by the
little pathway that approached from the direction of the lake, but parting
the bushes as if he had been exploring. When she heard footsteps behind
her, Margery looked up quickly.
"Mr. Raybold!" she exclaimed. "How on earth did you happen here?"
"I did not happen," said he, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. "I
have been looking for you, and I have had tough work of it. I saw you go
into the woods, and I went in also, although some distance below here, and
I have had a hard and tiresome job working my way up to you; but I have
found you. I knew I should, for I had bent my mind to the undertaking."
"Well, I wish you hadn't," said Margery, in a vexed tone. "I came here to
be alone and take a nap, and I wish you would find some other nice place
and go and take a nap yourself."
He smiled deeply. "That would not answer my purpose at all," said he.
"Napping is far from my desires."
"But I don't care anything about your desires," said Margery, in a tone
which showed she was truly vexed, "I have pre-empted this place, and I
want it to myself. I was just falling into a most delightful doze when you
came, and I don't think you have any right to come here and disturb me."
"The sense of right, Miss Dearborn," said he, "comes from the heart, and
we do not have to ask other people what it is. My heart has given me the
right to come here, and here I am."
"And what in the name of common-sense are you here for?" said Margery.
"Speaking about your heart makes me think you came here to make love to
me. Is that it?"
"It is," said he, "and I wish you to hear me."
"Mr. Raybold," said she, her eyes as bright, he thought, as if they had
belonged to his sister when she was urging some of her favorite views upon
a company, "I won't listen to one word of such stuff. This is no place for
love-making, and I won't have it. If you want to make love to me you can
wait until I go home, and then you can come and speak to my mother about
it, and when you have spoken to her you can speak to me, but I won't
listen to it here. Not one word!"
Thus did the indignant craftiness of Margery express itself. "It's a good
deal better," she thought, "than telling him no, and having him keep on
begging and begging."
"Miss Dearborn," said Raybold, "what I have to say cannot be postponed.
The words within me must be spoken, and I came here to speak them."
With a sudden supple twist Margery turned herself, hammock and all, and
stood on her feet on the ground. "Martin!" she cried, at the top of her
voice.
Raybold stepped back astonished. "What is this?" he exclaimed. "Am I to
understand--"
Before he had time to complete his sentence Martin Sanders sprang into the
scene.
"What is it?" he exclaimed, with a glare at Raybold, as if he suspected
why he had been called.
"Martin," said Margery, with a good deal of sharpness in her voice, "I
want you to take down this hammock and carry it away. I can't stay here
any longer. I thought that at least one quiet place out-of-doors could be
found where I would not be disturbed, but it seems there is no such place.
Perhaps you can hang the hammock somewhere near our cabin."
Martin's face grew very red. "I think," said he, "that you ought not to be
obliged to go away because you have been disturbed. Whoever disturbed you
should go away, and not you."
Now Mr. Raybold's face also grew red. "There has been enough of this!" he
exclaimed. "Guide, you can go where you came from. You are not wanted
here. If Miss Dearborn wishes her hammock taken down, I will do it." Then
turning to Margery, he continued: "You do not know what it is I have to
say to you. If you do not hear me now, you will regret it all your life.
Send this man away."
"I would very much like to send a man away if I knew how to do it," said
Margery.
"Do it?" cried Martin. "Oh, Miss Dearborn, if you want it done, ask me to
do it for you!"
"You!" shouted Raybold, making two steps towards the young guide; then he
stopped, for Margery stood in front of him.
"I have never seen two men fight," said she, "and I don't say I wouldn't
like it, just once; but you would have to have on boxing-gloves; I
couldn't stand a fight with plain hands, so you needn't think of it.
Martin, take down the hammock just as quickly as you can. And if you want
to stay here, Mr. Raybold, you can stay, but if you want to talk, you can
talk to the trees."
Martin heaved a sigh of disappointment, and proceeded to unfasten the
hammock from the trees to which it had been tied. For a moment Raybold
looked as if he were about to interfere, but there was something in the
feverish agility of the young guide which made his close proximity as
undesirable as that of a package of dynamite.
Margery turned to leave the place, but suddenly stopped. She would wait
until Martin was ready to go with her. She would not leave those two young
men alone.
Raybold was very angry. He knew well that such a chance for a private
interview was not likely to occur again, and he would not give up. He
approached the young girl.
"Margery," he said, "if you--"
"Martin," she cried to the guide, who was now ready to go, "put down that
hammock and come here. Now, sir," she said, turning to Raybold, "let me
hear you call me Margery again!"
She waited for about a half a minute, but she was not called by name. Then
she and Martin went away. She had nearly reached the cabin before she
spoke, and then she turned to the young man and said: "Martin, you needn't
trouble yourself about putting up that hammock now; I don't want to lie in
it. I'm going into the house. I am very much obliged to you for the way
you stood by me."
"Stood by you!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, which seemed struggling in
the grasp of something which might or might not be stronger than itself.
"You don't know how glad I am to stand by you, and how I would always--"
"Thank you," said Margery; "thank you very much," and she walked away
towards the cabin.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed, as she opened the door and went in.
CHAPTER XVI
A MAN WHO FEELS HIMSELF A MAN
Towards the end of the afternoon, when the air had grown cooler, Mr.
Archibald proposed a boating expedition to the lower end of the lake. His
boat was large enough for Matlack, the three ladies, and himself, and if
the two young men wished to follow, they had a boat of their own.
When first asked to join the boating party Miss Corona Raybold hesitated;
she did not care very much about boating; but when she found that if she
stayed in camp she would have no one to talk to, she accepted the
invitation.
Mr. Archibald took the oars nearest the stern, while Matlack seated
himself forward, and this arrangement suited Miss Corona exactly.
The boat kept down the middle of the lake, greatly aided by the current,
and Corona talked steadily to Mr. Archibald. Mrs. Archibald, who always
wanted to do what was right, and who did not like to be left out of any
conversation on important subjects, made now and then a remark, and
whenever she spoke Corona turned to her and listened with the kindest
attention, but the moment the elder lady had finished, the other resumed
her own thread of observation without the slightest allusion to what she
had just heard.
As for Mr. Archibald, he seldom said a word. He listened, sometimes his
eyes twinkled, and he pulled easily and steadily. Doubtless he had a good
many ideas, but none of them was expressed. As for Margery, she leaned
back in the stern, and thought that, after all, she liked Miss Raybold
better than she did her brother, for the young lady did not speak one word
to her, nor did she appear to regard her in any way.
"But how on earth," thought Margery, "she can float over this beautiful
water and under this lovely sky, with the grandeur of the forest all about
her, and yet pay not the slightest attention to anything she sees, but
keep steadily talking about her own affairs and the society she belongs
to, I cannot imagine. She might as well live in a cellar and have
pamphlets and reformers shoved down to her through the coal-hole."
Messrs. Clyde and Raybold accompanied the larger boat in their own skiff.
It was an unwieldy craft, with but one pair of oars, and as the two young
men were not accustomed to rowing together, and as Mr. Raybold was not
accustomed to rowing at all and did not like it, Mr. Clyde pulled the
boat. But, do what he could, it was impossible for him to get near the
other boat. Matlack, who was not obliged to listen to Miss Corona, kept
his eye upon the following skiff, and seemed to fear a collision if the
two boats came close together, for if Clyde pulled hard he pulled harder.
Arthur Raybold was not satisfied.
"I thought you were a better oarsman," he said to the other; "but now I
suppose we shall not come near them until we land."
But the Archibald party did not land. Under the guidance of Matlack they
swept slowly around the lower end of the lake; they looked over the big
untenanted camp-ground there; they stopped for a moment to gaze into the
rift in the forest through which ran the stream which connected this lake
with another beyond it, and then they rowed homeward, keeping close to the
farther shore, so as to avoid the strength of the current.
Clyde, who had not reached the end of the lake, now turned and determined
to follow the tactics of the other boat and keep close to the shore, but
on the side nearest to the camp. This exasperated Raybold.
"What are you trying to do?" he said. "If you keep in the middle we may
get near them, and why should we be on one side of the lake and they on
the other?"
"I want to get back as soon as they do," said Clyde, "and I don't want to
pull against the current."
"Stop!" said Raybold. "If you are tired, let me have the oars."
Harrison Clyde looked for a minute at his companion, and then deliberately
changed the course of the boat and rowed straight towards the shore,
paying no attention whatever to the excited remonstrances of Raybold. He
beached the boat at a rather poor landing-place among some bushes, and
then, jumping out, he made her fast.
"What do you mean?" cried Raybold, as he scrambled on shore. "Is she
leaking more than she did? What is the matter?"
"She is not leaking more than usual," said the other, "but I am not going
to pull against that current with you growling in the stern. I am going to
walk back to camp."
In consequence of this resolution the two young men reached Camp Rob about
the same time that the Archibald boat touched shore, and at least an hour
before they would have arrived had they remained in their boat.
The party was met by Mrs. Perkenpine, bearing letters and newspapers. A
man had arrived from Sadler's in their absence, and he had brought the
mail. Nearly every one had letters; there was even something for Martin.
Standing where they had landed, seated on bits of rock, on the grass, or
on camp-chairs, all read their letters.
While thus engaged a gentleman approached the party from the direction of
Camp Roy. He was tall, well built, handsomely dressed in a suit of
light-brown tweed, and carried himself with a buoyant uprightness. A neat
straw hat with a broad ribbon shaded his smooth-shaven face, which
sparkled with cordial good-humor. A blue cravat was tied tastefully under
a broad white collar, and in his hand he carried a hickory walking-stick,
cut in the woods, but good enough for a city sidewalk. Margery was the
first to raise her eyes at the sound of the quickly approaching
footsteps.
"Goodness gracious!" she exclaimed, and then everybody looked up.
For a moment the new-comer was gazed upon in silence. From what gigantic
bandbox could this well-dressed stranger have dropped? Then, with a loud
laugh, Mr. Archibald cried, "The bishop!"
No wonder there had not been instant recognition. The loose, easy-fitting
clothes gave no hint of redundant plumpness; no soiled shovel-hat cast a
shadow over the smiling face, and a glittering shirt front banished all
thought of gutta-percha.
"Madam," exclaimed the bishop, raising his hat and stepping quickly
towards Mrs. Archibald, "I cannot express the pleasure I feel in meeting
you again. And as for you, sir," holding out his hand to Mr. Archibald, "I
have no words in which to convey my feelings. Look upon a man, sir, who
feels himself a man, and then remember from what you raised him. I can say
no more now, but I can never forget what you have done," and as he spoke
he pressed Mr. Archibald's hand with an honest fervor, which distorted for
a moment the features of that gentleman.
From one to the other of the party the bishop glanced, as he said, "How
glad, how unutterably glad, I am to be again among you!" Turning his eyes
towards Miss Raybold, he stopped. That young lady had put down the letter
she was reading, and was gazing at him through her spectacles with calm
intensity. "This lady," said the bishop, turning towards Raybold, "is your
sister, I presume? May I have the honor?"
Raybold looked at him without speaking. Here was an example of the silly
absurdity of throwing pearls before swine. He had never wanted to have
anything to do with the fellow when he was in the gutter, and he wanted
nothing to do with him now.
With a little flush on her face Mrs. Archibald rose.
"Miss Raybold," she said, "let me present to you"--and she hesitated for a
moment--"the gentleman we call the bishop. I think you have heard us speak
of him."
"Yes," said Miss Raybold, rising, with a charming smile on her handsome
face, and extending her hand, "I have heard of him, and I am very glad to
meet him."
"I have also heard of you," said the bishop, as he stood smiling beside
Corona's camp-chair, "and I have regretted that I have been the innocent
means of preventing you for a time from occupying your brother's camp."
"Oh, do not mention that," said Corona, sweetly. "I walked over there
yesterday, and I think it is a great deal pleasanter here, so you have
really done me a favor. I am particularly glad to see you, because, from
the little I have heard said about you, I think you must agree with some
of my cherished opinions. For one thing, I am quite certain you favor the
assertion of individuality; your actions prove that."
"Really," said the bishop, seating himself near her, "I have not given
much thought to the subject; but I suppose I have asserted my
individuality. If I have, however, I have done it indefinitely. Everybody
about me having some definite purpose in life, and I having none, I am, in
a negative way, a distinctive individual. It is a pity I am so different
from other people, but--"
"No, it is not a pity," interrupted Corona, the color coming into her
cheeks and a brighter light into her eyes. "Our individuality is a sacred
responsibility. It is given to us for us to protect and encourage--I may
say, to revere. It is a trust for which we should be called to account by
ourselves, and we shall be false and disloyal to ourselves if we cannot
show that we have done everything in our power for the establishment and
recognition of our individuality."
"It delights me to hear you speak in that way," exclaimed the bishop. "It
encourages and cheers me. We are what we are; and if we can be more fully
what we are than we have been, then we are more truly ourselves than
before."
"And what can be nobler," cried Corona, "than to be, in the most
distinctive sense of the term, ourselves?"
Mr. and Mrs. Archibald walked together towards their cabin.
"I want to be neighborly and hospitable," said he, "but it seems to me
that, now that the way is clear for Miss Raybold to move her tent to her
own camp and set up house-keeping there, we should not be called upon to
entertain her, and, if we want to enjoy ourselves in our own way, we can
do it without thinking of her."
"We shall certainly not do it," said his wife, "if we do think of her. I
am very much disappointed in her. She is not a companion at all for
Margery; she never speaks to her; and, on the other hand, I should think
you would wish she would never speak to you."
"Well," said her husband, "that feeling did grow upon me somewhat this
afternoon. Up to a certain point she is amusing."
Here he was interrupted by Mrs. Perkenpine, who planted herself before
him.
"I s'pose you think I didn't do right," she said, "'cause, when that big
bundle came it had your name on it; but I knew it was clothes, and that
they was for that man in our camp, and so I took them to him myself. I
heard Phil say that the sooner that man was up and dressed, the better it
would be for all parties; and as Martin had gone off, and there wasn't
nobody to take his clothes to him, I took them to him, and that's the long
and short of it."
"I wondered how he got them," said Mr. Archibald, "but I am glad you
carried them to him." Then, speaking to his wife, he added, "It may be a
good thing that I gave him a chance to assert his individuality."
CHAPTER XVII
MRS. PERKENPINE ASSERTS HER INDIVIDUALITY
About half an hour after the beginning of the conversation between the
bishop and Miss Corona, Mrs. Perkenpine came to the latter and informed
her that supper
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