Loe raamatut: «The Associate Hermits», lehekülg 11
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.
Mr. Matlack was seated on his log, and he smoked, while Mrs. Perkenpine sat on the ground, her head thrown back and her arms hugging her knees.
“Phil,” said she, “that there moon looks to me like an oyster with a candle behind it, and as smooth and slippery as if I could jest swallow it down. You may think it is queer for me to think such things as that, Phil, but since I’ve come to know myself jest as I am, me, I’ve found out feelin’s – ”
“Mrs. Perkenpine,” said Matlack, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “there’s a good many things besides moons that I can’t swallow, and if it’s all the same to you, I’ll go to bed.”
“Well,” she exclaimed, looking after him, “his individdlety is the snapshortest I ever did see! I don’t believe he wants to know hisself. If he did, I’m dead sure I could help him. He never goes out to run a camp without somebody to help him, and yet he’s so everlastin’ blind he can’t see the very best person there is to help him, and she a-plumpin’ herself square in front of him every time she gits a chance.” With that reflection she rose and walked away.
“I tell you, Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, when he and his wife had returned from their walk and were about to enter the cabin, “something must be done to enable us to spend the rest of our time here in peace. This is our camp, and we want it for ourselves. If a good companionable fellow like the bishop or that young Clyde happens along, it is all very well, but we do not want all sorts of people forcing themselves upon us, and I will not submit to it.”
“Of course we ought not to do that,” said she, “but I hope that whatever you do, it will be something as pleasant as possible.”
“I will try to avoid any unpleasantness,” said he, “and I hope I may do so, but – By-the-way, where is Margery?”
“I think she must be in bed,” said Mrs. Archibald; then stepping inside, she called, “Margery, are you there?”
“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” replied Margery, “I am here.”
“She must have found it dreadfully stupid, poor girl!” said Mr. Archibald.
The lights were all out in the Archibalds’ cabin, and still Miss Raybold and the bishop walked up and down the open space at the farther end of the camp.
“Corona!” exclaimed her brother, suddenly appearing before them, “I have told you over and over again that I wish to speak to you. Are you never going to stop that everlasting preaching and give me a chance to talk to you?”
“Arthur!” she exclaimed, sharply, “I wish you would not interrupt me in this way. I had just begun to say – ”
“Oh, my dear Miss Raybold,” cried the bishop, “do not let me prevent you from speaking to your brother. Indeed, it is growing late, and I will not trespass longer on your time. Good-night,” and with a bow he was gone.
“Now just see what you have done!” said Corona, her eye-glasses brighter than the moon.
“Well, it is time he was going,” said her brother. “I have something very important to say to you. I want your good offices in an affair more worthy of your thoughts than anything else at this moment.”
“Whatever it is,” she said, turning away from him, “I do not want to hear it now – not a word of it. You have displeased me, Arthur, and I am going to my tent.”
CHAPTER XXV
A MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW
Mrs. Archibald retired to her cabin, but she did not feel in the least like going to bed. Her husband had long been asleep in his cot, and she still sat by the side of the little window looking out upon the moon-lighted scene; but the beauty of the night, if she noticed it at all, gave her no pleasure. Her mind was harassed and troubled by many things, chief among which was her husband’s unfinished sentence in which he had said that he would try to avoid any unpleasantness, but at the same time had intimated that if the unpleasant thing were forced upon him he was ready to meet it.
Now, reason as she would, Mrs. Archibald could not banish from her mind the belief that Arthur Raybold would come to their camp some time during the next day. In fact, not having heard otherwise, she supposed he had come to the camp-fire that night. She was filled with anger and contempt for the young man who was determined to force himself on their party in this outrageous manner, and considered it shameful that their peaceful life in these woods had been so wickedly disturbed. No wonder she did not want to sleep; no wonder she sat at the window thinking and thinking.
Presently she saw some one walking over the open space towards the cabin, and she could not fail to recognize the figure with the long stride, the folded arms, and the bowed head. He passed the window and then he turned and repassed it, then he turned and walked by again, this time a little nearer than before.
“This is too much!” said Mrs. Archibald. “The next thing he will be tapping at her window. I will go out and speak my mind to him.”
Opening the door very softly, and without even stopping to throw a shawl over her head and shoulders, Mrs. Archibald stepped outside into the night. Raybold was now at a little distance from the cabin, in the direction of Camp Roy, and was just about to turn when she hurried up to him.
“Mr. Raybold,” she said, speaking low and rapidly, “if you possessed a spark of gentlemanly feeling you would be ashamed to come into this camp when you have been ordered out of it. My husband has told you he does not want you here, and now I tell you that I do not want you here. It pains me to be obliged to speak to any one in this manner, but it is plain that no other sort of speech will affect you. Now, sir, I know your object, and I will not have you wandering up and down here in front of our cabin. I wish you to go to your own camp, and that immediately.”
Raybold stood and listened to her without a word until she had finished, and then he said:
“Madam, there has been a good deal of talk about knowing ourselves and showing ourselves to others. Now I know myself very well indeed, and I will show myself to you by saying that when my heart is interested I obey no orders, I pay no attention to mandates of any sort. Until I can say what I have to say I will watch and I will wait, but I shall not draw back.”
For the first time in fifteen years Mrs. Archibald lost her temper. She turned pale with anger. “You contemptible scoundrel! Go! Leave this camp instantly!”
He stood with arms folded and smiled at her, saying nothing. She trembled, she was so angry. But what could she do? If she called Mr. Archibald, or if he should be awakened by any outcry, she feared there would be bloodshed, and if she went to call Matlack, Mr. Archibald would be sure to be awakened. But at this moment some one stepped up quickly behind Raybold, and with a hand upon his shoulder, partly turned him around.
“I think,” said the bishop, “that I heard this lady tell you to go. If so, go.”
“I did say it,” said Mrs. Archibald, hurriedly. “Please be as quiet as you can, but make him go.”
“Do you hear what Mrs. Archibald says?” asked the bishop, sternly. “Depart, or – ”
“Do you mean to threaten me?” asked Raybold.
The bishop stepped close to him. “Will you go of your own accord,” he asked, “or do you wish me to take you away?”
He spoke quietly, but with an earnestness that impressed itself upon Raybold, who made a quick step backward. He felt a natural repugnance, especially in the presence of a lady, to be taken away by this big man, who, in the moonlight, seemed to be bigger than ever.
“I will speak to you,” said he, “when there are no ladies present.” And with this he retired.
“I am so much obliged to you,” said Mrs. Archibald. “It was a wonderful piece of good fortune that you should have come at this minute.”
The bishop smiled. “I am delighted that I happened here,” he said. “I heard so much talking this evening that I thought I would tranquillize my mind by a quiet walk by myself before I went to bed, and so I happened to see you and Raybold. Of course I had no idea of intruding upon you, but when I saw you stretch out your arm and say ‘Go!’ I thought it was time for me to come.”
“I feel bound to say to you,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that that impertinent fellow is persisting in his attentions to Miss Dearborn, and that Mr. Archibald and I will not have it.”
“I imagined that the discussion was on that subject,” said the bishop, “for Mr. Clyde has intimated to me that Raybold has been making himself disagreeable to the young lady.”
“I do not know what we are going to do,” said Mrs. Archibald, reflectively; “there seems to be no way of making an impression upon him. He is like his sister – he will have his own way.”
“Yes,” said the bishop, with a sigh, “he is like his sister. But then, one might thrash him, but what can be done with her? I tell you, Mrs. Archibald,” he said, turning to her, earnestly, “it is getting to be unbearable. The whole evening, ever since you left the camp-fire, she has been talking to me on the subject of mental assimilation – that is, the treatment of our ideas and thoughts as if they were articles of food – intellectual soda biscuit, or plum pudding, for instance – in order to find out whether our minds can digest these things and produce from them the mental chyme and chyle necessary to our intellectual development. The discourse was fortunately broken off for to-night, but there is more of it for to-morrow. I really cannot stand it.”
“I wouldn’t stand it,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Can’t you simply go away and leave her when she begins in that way?”
The bishop shook his head. “No,” he said, “that is impossible. When those beautiful eyes are fixed upon me I cannot go away. They charm me and they hold me. Unless there is an interruption, I must stay and listen. The only safety for me is to fly from this camp. At last,” he said, smiling a little sadly, “I am going to go. I did not want to do this until your camp broke up, but I must.”
“And you are really going to-morrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I have positively decided upon that.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” she said. “Good-night.”
When Mrs. Archibald entered her cabin she found her husband sleeping soundly, and she again sat down by the window. There was no such thing as sleep for her; her mind was more tossed and troubled than it had been before she went out. The fact that the bishop was going away made the matter worse, for just as she had found out that he was willing to help her, and that he might be able to keep Raybold away from them without actual violence – for she saw that the young boaster was afraid of him – he had told her he must leave, and in her heart she did not blame him. With great fear and anxiety she looked forward to the morrow.
It was about two o’clock when Mrs. Archibald suddenly arose from her seat by the window and lighted a candle. Then she pulled down the shades of the windows, front and back, after which she went to her husband’s cot and put her hand upon his shoulder.
“Hector,” said she, “wake up.”
In a moment Mr. Archibald was staring at her. “What is the matter?” he exclaimed. “Are you sick?”
“No,” said she, “but I have something very important to say to you. I want you to get up and go away with me, and take Margery.”
Mr. Archibald sat up in bed. He was now in full possession of his senses. “What!” said he, “elope? And where to?”
“Yes,” said she, “that is exactly what I mean, and we will go to Sadler’s first, and then home.”
“Do you mean now?” said he.
“Yes – that is, as soon as it is light,” she replied.
“Are you positively sure you are awake, Harriet?” asked Mr. Archibald.
“Awake!” she said. “I have not been asleep to-night. Don’t you see I am dressed?” And she drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. “I know more about what is going on than you do, Hector,” she said, “and I tell you if we stay any longer in this camp, there is going to be great trouble. That young Raybold pays no attention to what you said about keeping away from us. He comes here, when he pleases, and he says he intends to come. I asked you to take a walk with me this evening because I saw him coming to the camp-fire and I knew that you would resent it. To-night I saw him walking up and down in front of our cabin, and I believe he intended to try to speak to Margery. I went out to him myself, and he was positively insulting. If the bishop had not happened to come up, I believe he would have stayed here and defied me. But he made him go.
“Now that you know this, Hector, it is very certain that there will be trouble between you and that young man, and I do not want that. And, besides that, there is his sister; she is as determined to preach as he is to speak to Margery. The bishop says he can’t stand her any longer, and he is going away to-morrow, and that will make it all the worse for us – especially for you, Hector. I cannot endure this state of things; it has made me so nervous I cannot get to sleep, and, besides, it is not right for us to keep Margery where she must be continually guarded from such a man. Now it may seem foolish to run away, but I have thought over the matter for hours and hours, and it is the only thing to do; and what is more, it is very easy to do. If we announce that we are going, we will all go, and the chief cause of quarrels and danger will go with us. I know you, Hector; you will not stand his impertinence.
“It will be daylight between three and four o’clock, and we three can start out quietly and have a pleasant walk to Sadler’s. It is only four miles, and we can take our time. We need not carry anything with us but what we choose to put in our pockets. We can pack our bags and leave them here, and Mr. Sadler will send for them. When we get there we can go to bed if we like, and have time enough for a good sleep before breakfast, and then we can take the morning stage and leave this place and everybody in it. Now please don’t be hasty and tell me all this is foolish. Remember, if you stay here you have a quarrel on your hands, and I shall have hours of misery until that quarrel is settled; and no matter how it is settled, things will be disagreeable afterwards.”
