The Associate Hermits

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.”

“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.