The Associate Hermits

“I was as angry as if a man in the street had knocked my hat down over my eyes and said that he did so in order to call my attention to a subscription paper. But this indignation was nothing to what I felt when the fellow began to speak. I cannot repeat his words, but he stated his object at once, and said that as this was a good opportunity to speak to me alone, he wished to ask me to remove what he called the utterly useless embargo which I had placed upon him in regard to Margery. He said it was useless because he could not be expected to give up his hopes and his plans simply because I objected to them; and he went on to say that if I understood him fully, and if Margery understood him, he did not believe that either of us would object. And then he actually asked me to use my influence with her to make her listen to him. From what he said, I am sure he has been speaking to her. I did not let him finish, but turned and blazed at him in words as strong as would come to me. I ordered him never to speak to me again or show himself in my camp, and told him that if he did either of these things he would do them at his peril; and then, for fear he might say something which would make me lose control of myself, I jerked up my anchor and rowed away from him. I didn’t feel like fishing any more, and so I came back.”

“His behavior is shameful,” said Mrs. Archibald. “And what is more, it is ridiculous, for Margery would not look at him. What sort of a man does he think you are, to suppose that you would give your permission to any one, no matter who he might be, to offer marriage to a young lady in your charge? But what are you going to do about it? I think it very likely he will come to this camp, and he may speak to you.”

“In that case I shall have him driven out,” said Mr. Archibald, “as if he were a drunken vagabond. Personally I shall have nothing to do with him, but I shall order my guides to eject him.”

“I hope that may not be necessary,” said his wife. “It would make bad feeling, and deeply wound his sister, for it would be the same thing as putting her out. She talks too much, to be sure, but she is a lady, and has treated us all very courteously. I wish we could get through the rest of our stay here without any disturbance or bad feeling.”

“I wish so too, with all my heart,” said her husband. “And the only thing necessary to that end is that that ass Raybold shall keep out of my sight.”

It was about two o’clock that afternoon, and Mrs. Archibald, under her tree, her basket of stockings all darned and her novel at its culminating point of interest, was the only visible occupant of Camp Rob, when Corona Raybold came walking towards her, an obvious purpose in her handsome face, which was somewhat flushed by exercise.

“I do not think,” she said, as soon as she was near enough for Mrs. Archibald to hear her, “that the true purpose and intention of our plan is properly understood by all of the party. I think, after some explanation, everything will go well, but I have been endeavoring for the last half-hour to find Mrs. Perkenpine, and have utterly failed. I am very hungry, but I can discover nothing to eat. All our stores appear to be absolutely raw, or in some intermediate state of crudity. I intend to order some provisions in cans or boxes which will be at all times available, but I have not done so yet, and so I have come over to speak to you about the matter. Did your guides prepare your dinner as usual?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Archibald. “A hermit life seems to make no difference with Mr. Matlack. We become associates at meal-times, but, as you see, we have separated again.”

“I must instil into Mrs. Perkenpine’s mind,” said Corona, “that, in order thoroughly to act out her own nature, she must cook and do other things of a domestic character. Of course she will do those things in her own way; that is to be expected; but she must do them. It is impossible to imagine a woman of her class whose soul is not set more or less upon domestic affairs. I will instance Mr. Matlack. His nature belongs to the woods and the out-of-door world, and that nature prompts him to cook what he shoots.”

Mrs. Archibald laughed. “I think his nature is a very good one,” she said, “and I will go with you to find him and see if he cannot give you a luncheon, if not a dinner.”

“Thank you very much,” said Corona; “but indeed I do not wish to trouble you. I will go to him myself. You are very kind, but it is not in the least degree necessary for you to accompany me. A cup of tea and some little trifle is all I shall ask him for.”

For a moment Mrs. Archibald hesitated, and then she said, “As we are hermits, I suppose we must not keep together any more than we can help, and so I will let you go alone.”

Corona found Phil Matlack by his kitchen tent, busily engaged in rubbing the inside of a large kettle. He was not in a good humor. The departure of Martin had thrown all the work of his camp upon him, and now the appearance of a person from another camp requesting to be fed aroused him to absolute anger. He did not scold, for it would have been impossible to look at that beautiful and imperturbable face and say hard words to it. He did not refuse the cup of tea or the bread-and-butter for which he was asked, and he even added some cold meat; but he indignantly made up his mind that he would stand no more of this nonsense, and that if necessary he would go to Sadler and throw up the job. He had not engaged to cook for three camps.

Miss Raybold did not appear to notice his state of mind, and ate heartily. She thought it was fortunate that he happened to have the kettle on the stove, and she asked him how he liked the hermit life – the living for himself alone.

“Haven’t tried it,” he answered, curtly.

“I understand,” said Corona, “you have had to live too much for other people; but it is too soon to expect our plan to run smoothly. In a short time, however, we shall be better able to know our own natures and show them to others.”

“Oh, I can do that,” said he; “and I am goin’ to, precious soon.”

“I have no doubt of it,” she answered. “And now can you tell me where Mr. Archibald has gone? I did not see him this morning, and there are some matters I wish to speak to him about.”

“No, miss,” said Matlack, promptly, “I don’t know where he is. He’s a real hermit. He’s off by himself, most likely miles away.”

Corona reflected. “Mr. – the bishop? Have you seen him? He may be able to – ”

The guide grinned grimly. He had seen the man of muscle – not fat – conversing that morning with Corona, and an hour afterwards he had seen him, not in the same place, but in the same companionship, and it gave him a certain pleasure to know that the man who could heave rocks and break young trees could not relieve himself from the thralls of the lady of the flowing speech.

“The bishop?” said he. “Don’t you know where he went to?”

“He left me,” she answered, “because he was obliged to go to prepare dinner for my brother and Mr. Clyde; but he is not in Camp Roy now, for I went there to look for Mrs. Perkenpine.”

“Well,” said the wicked Matlack, pointing to the spot where, not long before, Margery had found a tranquillizing breeze, “I saw him going along with a book a little while ago, and I think he went down to the shore, just beyond that clump of bushes over there. He seems to be a man who likes readin’, which isn’t a bad thing for a hermit.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Raybold, rising. “I do not care for anything more. You are very kind, and I am quite sure I shall not have to trouble you again. To-morrow everything will be running smoothly.”

Matlack looked at her as she quietly walked away. “She’s a pretty sort of a hermit,” he said to himself. “If she really had to live by herself she’d cut out a wooden man and talk to it all day. It won’t be long before she accidentally stumbles over that big fellow with his book.”

CHAPTER XXIII

MRS. PERKENPINE FINDS OUT THINGS ABOUT HERSELF

The mind of the guide was comforted and relieved that he had got the better of the bishop in one way, although he could not do it in another. But he did not relinquish his purpose of putting an end to the nonsense which made him do the work of other people, and as soon as he had set his kitchen in order he started out to find Mrs. Perkenpine. A certain amount of nonsense from the people in camp might have to be endured, but nonsense from Mrs. Perkenpine was something about which Peter Sadler would have a word to say.

Matlack was a good hunter. He could follow all sorts of tracks – rabbit tracks, bird tracks, deer tracks, and the tracks of big ungainly shoes – and in less than half an hour he had reached a cluster of moss-covered rocks lying some distance back in the woods, and approached by the bed of a now dry stream. Sitting on one of these rocks, her back against a tree, her straw hat lying beside her, and her dishevelled hair hanging about her shoulders, was Mrs. Perkenpine, reading a newspaper. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up.

“Well, I’ll be bound!” she said. “If I’d crawl into a fox-hole I expect you’d come and sniff in after me.”

Matlack stood and looked at her for a moment. He could not help smiling at the uncomfortable manner in which she was trying to make herself comfortable on those rough rocks.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mrs. Perkenpine,” he said, “you’ll get yourself into the worst kind of a hole if you go off this way, leavin’ everything at sixes and sevens behind you.”

“It’s my nater,” said she. “I’m findin’ it out and gittin’ it ready to show to other people. You’re the fust one that’s seed it. How do you like it?”

“I don’t like it at all,” said the guide, “and I have just come to tell you that if you don’t go back to your tent and cook supper to-night and attend to your business, I’ll walk over to Sadler’s, and tell Peter to send some one in your place. I’m goin’ over there anyway, if he don’t send a man to take Martin’s place.”

“Peter Sadler!” ejaculated Mrs. Perkenpine, letting her tumbled newspaper fall into her lap. “He’s a man that knows his own nater, and lets other people see it. He lives his own life, if anybody does. He’s individdle down to the heels, and just look at him! He’s the same as a king. I tell you, Phil Matlack, that the more I knows myself, just me, the more I’m tickled. It seems like scootin’ round in the woods, findin’ all sorts of funny hoppin’ things and flowers that you never seed before. Why, it ’ain’t been a whole day since I begun knowin’ myself, and I’ve found out lots. I used to think that I liked to cook and clean up, but I don’t; I hate it.”

Matlack smiled, and taking out his pipe, he lighted it and sat down on a rock.

“I do believe,” he said, “that you are the most out and out hermit of the whole lot; but it won’t do, and if you don’t get over your objections to cookin’ you’ll have to walk out of these woods to-morrow.”

Mrs. Perkenpine sat and looked at her companion a few moments without giving any apparent heed to his remarks.

“Of course,” said she, “it isn’t only findin’ out what you be yourself, but it’s lettin’ other people see what you be. If you didn’t do that it would be like a pot a-b’ilin’ out in the middle of a prairie, with nobody nearer nor a hundred miles.”

“It would be the same as if it hadn’t b’iled,” remarked Matlack.

“That’s jest it,” said she, “and so I ain’t sorry you come along, Phil, so’s I can tell you some things I’ve found out about myself. One of them is that I like to lie flat on my back and look up at the leaves of the trees and think about them.”

“What do you think?” asked Matlack.

“I don’t think nothin’,” said she. “Just as soon as I begin to look at them wrigglin’ in the wind, and I am beginnin’ to wonder what it is I think about them, I go slam bang to sleep, and when I wake up and try to think again what it is I think, off I go again. But I like it. If I don’t know what it is I think, I ought to know that I don’t know it. That’s what I call bein’ really and truly a hermick.”

“What else did you find out?” inquired Matlack.

“I found out,” she answered, with animation, “that I admire to read anecdotes. I didn’t know I cared a pin for anecdotes until I took to hermickin’. Now here’s this paper; it came ’round the cheese, and it’s got a good many anecdotes scattered about in it. Let me read one of them to you. It’s about a man who made his will and afterwards was a-drivin’ a horse along a road, and the horse got skeered and ran over his executor, who was takin’ a walk. Then he sung out, ‘Oh, bless my soul!’ says he. But I’ll read you the rest if I can find it.”

“Never mind about the anecdote,” said Matlack, who knew very well that it would take Mrs. Perkenpine half an hour to spell out twenty lines in a newspaper. “What I want to know is if you found out anything about yourself that’s likely to give you a boost in the direction of that cookin’-stove of yourn.”

Mrs. Perkenpine was a woman whose remarks did not depend upon the remarks of others. “Phil Matlack,” said she, gazing fixedly at his pipe, “if I had a man I’d let him smoke just as much as he pleased and just where he pleased. He could smoke afore he got up, and he could smoke at his meals, and he could smoke after he went to bed, and, if he fancied that sort of thing, he could smoke at family prayers; it wouldn’t make no difference to me, and I wouldn’t say a word to him agin’ it. If that was his individdlety, I’d say viddle.”

“And how about everything else?” asked Matlack. “Would you tell him to cook his own victuals and mend his clothes accordin’ to his own nater?”

“No, sir,” said she, striking with her expansive hand the newspaper in her lap – “no, sir. I’d get up early in the mornin’, and cook and wash and bake and scour. I’d skin the things he shot, and clean his fish, and dig bait if he wanted it. I’d tramp into the woods after him, and carry the gun and the victuals and fishin’-poles, and I’d set traps and row a boat and build fires, and let him go along and work out his own nater smokin’ or in any other way he was born to. That’s the biggest thing I’ve found out about myself. I never knowed, until I began, this mornin’, explorin’ of my own nater, what a powerful hard thing it is, when I’m thinkin’ of my own individdlety, to keep somebody else’s individdlety from poppin’ up in front of it, and so says I to myself, ‘If I can think of both them individdleties at the same time it will suit me fust-rate.’ And when you come along I thought I’d let you know what sort of a nater I’ve got, for it ain’t likely you’d ever find it out for yourself. And now that we’re in that business – ”

“Hello!” cried Matlack, springing to his feet. “There is somebody callin’ me. Who’s there?” he shouted, stepping out into the bed of the stream.

A call was now heard, and in a few moments the bishop appeared some distance below.

“Mr. Matlack,” he said, “there’s a man at your camp inquiring for you. He came from Sadler’s, and I’ve been looking high and low for you.”

“A man from Sadler’s,” said Matlack, turning to Mrs. Perkenpine, “and I must be off to see him. Remember what I told you about the supper.” And so saying, he walked rapidly away.

Out in the open Matlack found the bishop. “Obliged to you for lookin’ me up,” he said, “it’s a pity to give you so much trouble.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!” exclaimed the bishop. “You cannot understand, perhaps, not knowing the circumstances, but I assure you I never was more obliged to any one than to that man who wants to see you and couldn’t find you. There was no one else to look for you, and I simply had to go.”

“You are not goin’ to walk back to camp?” inquired Matlack.

“No,” replied the bishop, “now that I am here, I think I will go up the lake and try to find a very secluded spot in the shade and take a nap.”

The guide smiled as he walked away. “Don’t understand!” said he. “You’ve got the boot on the wrong leg.”

Arrived at his tent, Matlack found Bill Hammond, a young man in Sadler’s service, who informed him that that burly individual had sent Martin away in the stage-coach, and had ordered him to come and take his place.

“All right,” said Matlack. “I guess you’re as good as he was, and so you can settle down to work. By-the-way, do you know that we are all hermits here?”

“Hermits?” said the other. “What’s that?”

“Why, hermits,” said Matlack, “is individ’als who get up early in the mornin’ and attend to their own business just as hard as they can, without lookin’ to the right or left, until it’s time to go to bed.”

The young man looked at him in some surprise. “There’s nothing so very uncommon in that,” said he.

“No,” replied the guide, “perhaps there ain’t. But as you might hear them talkin’ about hermits here, I thought I’d tell you just what sort of things they are.”

CHAPTER XXIV

A DISSOLVING AUDIENCE

When a strange young man assisted Matlack at the supper-table that evening, Mr. Archibald asked what had become of Martin.

“Peter Sadler has sent him away,” answered the guide. “I don’t know where he sent him or what he sent him for. But he’s a young man who’s above this sort of business, and so I suppose he’s gone off to take up something that’s more elevated.”

“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Archibald, “for I liked him.”

Mr. Archibald smiled. “This business of insisting upon our own individualities,” he said, “seems to have worked very promptly in his case. I suppose he found out he was fitted for something better than a guide, and immediately went off to get that better thing.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Matlack.

Margery said nothing. Her heart sank. She could not help feeling that what she had said to the young man had been the cause of his sudden departure. Could he have done such a thing, she thought, as really to go and ask Mr. Sadler, and, having found he did not mind, could he have gone to see her mother? Her appetite for her supper departed, and she soon rose and strolled away, and as she strolled the thought came again to her that it was a truly dreadful thing to be a girl.

Having received no orders to the contrary, Matlack, with his new assistant, built and lighted the camp-fire. Some of the hermits took this as a matter of course, and some were a little surprised, but one by one they approached; the evening air was beginning to be cool, and the vicinity of the fire was undoubtedly the pleasantest place in camp. Soon they were all assembled but one, and Mrs. Archibald breathed freer when she found that Arthur Raybold was not there.

“I am delighted,” said Corona, as soon as she took her usual seat, which was a camp-chair, “to see you all gather about the fire. I was afraid that some of you might think that because we are hermits we must keep away from each other all the time. But we must remember that we are associate hermits, and so should come together occasionally. I was going to say something to the effect that some of us may have misunderstood the true manner and intent of the assertions of our individualities, but I do not now believe that this is necessary.”

“Do you mean by all that,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “that I cooked the supper?”

“Yes,” said Miss Raybold, turning upon her guide with a pleasant smile, “that is what I referred to.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “I was told that if I didn’t cook I’d be bounced. It isn’t my individdlety to cook for outsiders, but it isn’t my individdlety to be bounced, nuther, so I cooked. Is that bein’ a hermick?”

“You have it,” cried Mr. Archibald, “you’ve not only found out what you are, but what you have to be. Your knowledge of yourself is perfect. And now,” he continued, “isn’t there somebody who can tell us a story? When we are sitting around a camp-fire, there is nothing better than stories. Bishop, I dare say you have heard a good many in the course of your life. Don’t you feel like giving us one?”

“I think,” said Corona, “that by the aid of stories it is possible to get a very good idea of ourselves. For instance, if some one were to tell a good historical story, and any one of us should find himself or herself greatly interested in it, then that person might discover, on subsequent reflection, some phase of his or her intellect which he or she might not have before noticed. On the other hand, if it should be a love story, and some of us could not bear to hear it, then we might also find out something about ourselves of which we had been ignorant. But I really think that, before making any tests of this sort, we should continue the discussion of what is at present the main object of our lives – self-knowledge and self-assertion. In other words, the emancipation of the individual. As I have said before, and as we all know, there never was a better opportunity offered a group of people of mature minds to subject themselves, free of outside influences, to a thorough mental inquisition, and then to exhibit the results of their self-examinations to appreciative companions. This last is very important. If we do not announce to others what we are, it is of scarcely any use to be anything. I mean this, of course, in a limited sense.”

“Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, abruptly, “do you remember where I left my pipe? I do not like this cigar.”

“On the shelf by the door of the cabin,” she replied. “I saw it as I came out.”

Her husband immediately rose and left the fire. Corona paused in her discourse to wait until Mr. Archibald came back; but then, as if she did not wish to lose the floor, she turned towards the bishop, who sat at a little distance from her, and addressed herself to him, with the idea of making some collateral remarks on what she had already said, in order to fill up the time until Mr. Archibald should return.

Mrs. Archibald thought that her husband had been a little uncivil; but almost immediately after he had gone, she, too, jumped up, and, without making any excuse whatever, hurried after him.

The reason for this sudden movement was that Mrs. Archibald had seen some one approaching from the direction of Camp Roy. She instantly recognized this person as Arthur Raybold, and felt sure that, unwilling to stay longer by himself, he was coming to the camp-fire, and if her husband should see him, she knew there would be trouble. What sort of trouble or how far it might extend she did not try to imagine.

“Hector,” she said, as soon as she was near enough for him to hear her, “don’t go after the pipe; let us take a moonlight walk along the shore. I believe it is full moon to-night, and we have not had a walk of that sort for ever so long.”

“Very good,” said her husband, turning to her. “I shall be delighted. I don’t care for the pipe, and the cigar would have been good enough if it had not been for the sermon. That would spoil any pleasure. I can’t stand that young woman, Harriet; I positively cannot.”

“Well, then, let us walk away and forget her,” said his wife. “I don’t wonder she annoys you.”

“If it were only the young woman,” thought Mrs. Archibald, as the two strolled away beneath the light of the moon, “we might manage it. But her brother!”

At the next indication of a pause in Corona’s discourse the bishop suddenly stood on his feet. “I wonder,” he said, “if there is anything the matter with Mrs. Archibald? I will step over to her cabin to see.”

“Indeed!” said Corona, rising with great promptness, “I hope it is nothing serious. I will go with you.”

Margery was not a rude girl, but she could not help a little laugh, which she subdued as much as possible; Mr. Clyde, who was sitting near her, laughed also.

“There is nothing on earth the matter with Aunt Harriet,” said Margery. “They didn’t go into the cabin; I saw them walking away down the shore.”

“How would you like to walk that way?” he asked. “I think their example is a very good one.”

“It is capital,” said Margery, jumping up, “and let’s get away quickly before she comes back.”

They hurried away, but they did not extend their walk down the lake shore even as far as Mr. and Mrs. Archibald had already gone. When they came to the bit of beach behind the clump of trees where the bishop had retired that afternoon to read, they stopped and sat down to watch the moonlight on the water.

Matlack and Mrs. Perkenpine were now the only persons at the camp-fire, for Bill Hammond, as was his custom, had promptly gone to bed as soon as his work was done. If Arthur Raybold had intended to come to the camp-fire, he had changed his mind, for he now stood near his sister’s tent, apparently awaiting the approach of Corona and the bishop, who had not found the Archibalds, and who were now walking together in what might have been supposed, by people who did not know the lady, to be an earnest dialogue.