Loe raamatut: «The Associate Hermits», lehekülg 12

“Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, suddenly twisting himself so that he sat on the side of the bed, “your idea is a most admirable one. It suits me exactly. Let us run away. It is impossible for us to do anything better than that. Have you told Margery?”

“No,” she answered, “but I will go to her at once.”

“Be quick and quiet, then,” said her husband, who had now entered fully into the spirit of the adventure; “nobody must hear us. I will dress, and then we will pack.”

“Margery,” said Mrs. Archibald, after three times shaking the sleeping girl, “you must get up. Your uncle and I are going away, and you must go with us.”

Margery turned her great eyes on Mrs. Archibald, but asked no questions.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Archibald, “we cannot stay in this camp any longer, on account of Mr. Raybold and various other things. Matters have come to a crisis, and we must go, and more than that, we must slip away so that the others may not go with us.”

“When?” asked Margery, now speaking for the first time.

“As soon as it is daylight.”

“So soon as that?” said the girl, a shadow on her brow which was very plain in the light of the candle which Mrs. Archibald had brought with her. “Surely not before breakfast?”

“Margery,” said Mrs. Archibald, a little sharply, “you do not seem to understand – you are not awake; we must start as soon as it is light. But we cannot discuss it now. We are going, and you must go with us. You must get up and pack your things in your bag, which we shall send for.”

Suddenly a light came into Margery’s eyes and she sat up. “All right,” said she, “I will be ready as soon as you are. It will be jolly to run away, especially so early in the morning,” and with that she jumped out of bed.

CHAPTER XXVI
AN ELOPEMENT

A little more than an hour after Mrs. Archibald had made known her project to her husband the three inhabitants of the cabin stole softly out into the delicate light of the early dawn.

Mr. Archibald had thought of leaving a note for Matlack, but his wife had dissuaded him. She was afraid that the wrong person might get hold of it.

“When we are safely at Sadler’s,” she said, “we can send for our bags, with a note to Matlack. It will not matter then who knows.” She had a firm belief in the power of the burly keeper of the inn to prevent trouble on his premises.

With careful but rapid steps the little party passed along the open portion of the camp, keeping as far as possible from the tent wherein reposed Corona and Mrs. Perkenpine, and soon reached the entrance of the wood road. Here it was not quite so light as in the open, but still they could make their way without much trouble, and after a few minutes’ walking they felt perfectly safe from observation, and slackening their pace, they sauntered along at their ease.

The experience was a novel one to all of them; even Mr. Archibald had never been in the woods so early in the morning. In fact, under these great trees it could scarcely be said to be morning. The young light which made its uncertain way through the foliage was barely strong enough to cast a shadow, and although these woodland wanderers knew that it was a roadway in which they were walking, that great trees stood on each side of them, with branches reaching out over their heads, and that there were bushes and vines and here and there a moss-covered rock or a fallen tree, they saw these things not clearly and distinctly, but as through a veil. But there was nothing uncertain about the air they breathed; full of the moist aroma of the woods, it was altogether different from the noonday odors of the forest.

Stronger and stronger grew the morning light, and more and more clearly perceptible became the greens, the browns, and the grays about them. Now the birds began to chatter and chirp, and squirrels ran along the branches of the trees, while a young rabbit bounced out from some bushes and went bounding along the road. This early morning life was something they had not seen in their camp, for it was all over before they began their day. There was a spring by the roadside, which they had noticed when they had come that way before, and when they reached it they sat down and ate some biscuit which Mrs. Archibald had brought with her, and drank cool water from Mr. Archibald’s folding pocket-cup.

The loveliness of the scene, the novelty of the experience, the feeling that they were getting away from unpleasant circumstances, and in a perfectly original and independent fashion, gave them all high spirits. Even Mrs. Archibald, whose sleepless night might have been supposed to interfere with this morning walk, declared herself as fresh as a lark, and stated that she knew now why a lark or any other thing that got up early in the morning should be fresh.

They had not left the spring far behind them when they heard a rustling in the woods to the right of the road, and the next moment there sprang out into the open, not fifty feet in front of them, a full-grown red deer. They were so startled by this apparition that they all stopped as if the beautiful creature had been a lion in their path. For an instant it turned its great brown eyes upon them, and then with two bounds it plunged into the underbrush on the other side of the road. Mrs. Archibald and Margery had never before seen a deer in the woods.

The young girl clapped her hands. “It all reminds me of my first night at the opera!” she cried.

Two or three times they rested, and they never walked rapidly, so it was after five o’clock when the little party emerged into the open country and approached the inn. Not a soul was visible about the premises, but as they knew that some one soon would be stirring, they seated themselves in three arm-chairs on the wide piazza to rest and wait.

Peter Sadler was an early riser, and when the front hall door was open he appeared thereat, rolling his wheeled chair out upon the piazza with a bump – though not with very much of a bump, for the house was built to suit him and his chair. But he did not take his usual morning roll upon the piazza, for, turning his head, he beheld a gentleman and two ladies fast asleep in three great wicker chairs.

“Upon my soul!” he exclaimed. “If they ain’t the Camp Robbers!” At this exclamation they all awoke.

Ten minutes after that the tale had been told, and if the right arm of Mr. Sadler’s chair had not been strong and heavy it would have been shivered into splinters.

“As usual,” cried the stalwart Peter, “the wrong people ran away. If I had seen that bicycle man and his party come running out of the woods, I should have been much better satisfied, and I should have thought you had more spirit in you, sir, than I gave you credit for.”

“Oh, you mistake my husband altogether!” cried Mrs. Archibald. “The trouble with him is that he has too much spirit, and that is the reason I brought him away.”

“And there is another thing,” exclaimed Margery. “You should not say Mr. Raybold and his party. He was the only one of them who behaved badly.”

“That is true,” said Mrs. Archibald. “His sister is somewhat obtrusive, but she is a lady, gentle and polite, and it would have been very painful to her and as painful to us had it been necessary forcibly to eject her brother from our camp. It was to avoid all this that we – ”

“Eloped,” interjected Mr. Archibald.

The good Peter laughed. “Perhaps you are right,” said he. “But I shall have a word with that bicycle fellow when he comes this way. You are an original party, if there ever was one. First you go on somebody else’s wedding-journey, and then you elope in the middle of the night, and now the best thing you can do is to go to bed. You can have a good sleep and a nine-o’clock breakfast, and I do not see why you should leave here for two or three days.”

“Oh, we must go this morning,” said Mrs. Archibald, quickly. “We must go. We really cannot wait until any of those people come here. It makes me nervous to think about it.”

“Very good, then,” said Peter. “The coach starts for the train at eleven.”

Mrs. Archibald was a systematic woman, and was in the habit of rising at half-past seven, and when that hour arrived she awoke as if she had been asleep all night. Going to the window to see what sort of a day it was, which was also her custom, she looked out upon the lawn in front of the house, and her jaw dropped and her eyes opened. There she beheld Margery and Mr. Clyde strolling along in close converse. For a moment she was utterly stupefied.

“What can this mean?” she thought. “How could they have missed us so soon? We are seldom out of our cabin before eight o’clock. I cannot comprehend it!” And then a thought came to her which made her face grow pale. “Is it possible,” she said to herself, “that any of the others have come? I must go immediately and find out.”

In ten minutes she had dressed and quietly left the room.

When Margery saw Mrs. Archibald descending the piazza, steps, she left Mr. Clyde and came running to meet her.

“I expect you are surprised to see me here,” she said, “but I intended to tell you and Uncle Archibald as soon as you came down. You see, I did not at all want to go away and not let Mr. Clyde know what had become of me, and so, after I had packed my bag, I wrote a little note to him and put it in a biscuit-box under a stone not far from my window, which we had arranged for a post-office, just the day before.”

“A post-office!” cried Mrs. Archibald.

“Yes,” said Margery. “Of course there wasn’t any need for one – at least we did not suppose there would be – but we thought it would be nice; for, you must know, we are engaged.”

“What!” cried Mrs. Archibald. “Engaged? Impossible! What are you talking about?”

“Yes,” said Margery, “we are really engaged, and it was absolutely necessary. Under ordinary circumstances this would not have happened so soon, but as things were it could not be delayed. Mr. Clyde thought the matter over very carefully, and he decided that the only way to keep me from being annoyed and frightened by Mr. Raybold was for him to have the right to defend me. If he told Mr. Raybold I was engaged to him, that of course would put an end to the young man’s attentions. We were engaged only yesterday, so we haven’t had any time to tell anybody, but we intended to do it to-day, beginning with you and Uncle Archibald. Harrison came over early to the post-office, hoping to find some sort of a note, and he was wonderfully astonished when he read what was in the one I put there. I told him not to say anything to anybody, and he didn’t, but he started off for Sadler’s immediately, and came almost on a run, he says, he was so afraid I might go away before he saw me.”

“Margery,” exclaimed the elder lady, tears coming into her eyes as she spoke, “I am grieved and shocked beyond expression. What can I say to my husband? What can I say to your mother? From the bottom of my heart I wish we had not brought you with us; but how could I dream that all this trouble would come of it?”

“It is indeed a very great pity,” said Margery, “that Mr. Clyde and I could not have been engaged before we went into camp; then Mr. Raybold would have had no reason to bother me, and I should have had no trouble with Martin.”

“Martin!” cried Mrs. Archibald. “What of him?”

“Oh, he was in love with me too,” replied the young girl, “and we had talks about it, and I sent him away. He was really a young man far above his station, and was doing the things he did simply because he wanted to study nature; but of course I could not consider him at all.”

“And that was the reason he left us!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald. “Upon my word, it is amazing!”

“Yes,” said Margery; “and don’t you see, Aunt Harriet, how many reasons there were why Mr. Clyde and I should settle things definitely and become engaged? Now there need be no further trouble with anybody.”

Distressed as she was, Mrs. Archibald could not refrain from smiling. “No further trouble!” she said. “I think you would better wait until Mr. Archibald and your mother have heard this story before you say that.”

Mr. Archibald was dressing for breakfast when his wife told him of Margery’s engagement, and the announcement caused him to twirl around so suddenly that he came very near breaking a looking-glass with his hair-brush. He made a dash for his coat. “I will see him,” he said, and his eyes sparkled in a way which indicated that they could discover a malefactor without the aid of spectacles.

“Stop!” said his wife, standing in his way. “Don’t go to them when you are angry. We have just got out of trouble, and don’t let us jump into it again. If they are really and truly engaged – and I am sure they are – we have no authority to break it off, and the less you say the better. What we must do is to take her immediately to her mother, and let her settle the matter as best she can. If she knows her daughter as well as I do, I am sure she will acquit us of all blame.”

Mr. Archibald was very indignant and said a great deal, but his wife was firm in her counsel to avoid any hard words or bad feeling in a matter over which they had now no control.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I will pass over the whole affair to Mrs. Dearborn, but I hope I may eat my breakfast without seeing them. Whatever happens, I need a good meal.”

When Mr. Archibald came out of the breakfast-room, his mind considerably composed by hot rolls and coffee, he met Margery in the hall.

“Dear Uncle Archibald,” she exclaimed, “I have been waiting and waiting for you. I hope you are not angry. Please be as kind to us as you can, and remember, it was just the same with us as it was with you and Aunt Harriet. You would not have run away from the camp in the middle of the night if you could have helped it, and we should not have been engaged so suddenly if we could have helped it. But we all had to do what we did on account of the conduct of others, and as it is settled now, I think we ought all to try to be as happy as we can, and forget our troubles. Here is Harrison, and he and I both pray from the bottom of our hearts that you will shake hands with him. I know you always liked him, for you have said so. And now we are both going to mother to tell her all about it.”

“Both?” said Mr. Archibald.

“Yes,” said Margery; “we must go together, otherwise mother would know nothing about him, and I should be talking to no purpose. But we are going to do everything frankly and openly and go straight to her, and put our happiness in her hands.”

Mr. Archibald looked at her steadfastly. “Such ingenuousness,” he said, presently, “is overpowering. Mr. Clyde, how do you do? Do you think it is going to be a fine day?”

The young man smiled. “I think it is going to be a fine lifetime,” said he.

The party was gathered together on the piazza, ready to take the coach. The baggage had arrived from the camp in a cart; but Phil Matlack had not come with it, as he remained to take down his tent and settle affairs generally. They were all sorry not to see him again, for he had proved himself a good man and a good guide; but when grown-up married people elope before daybreak something must be expected to go wrong. Hearty and substantial remembrances were left for him, and kind words of farewell for the bishop, and even for Miss Corona when she should appear.

Peter Sadler was loath to part with his guests. “You are more interesting now than ever you were,” he said, “and I want to hear all about that hermit business; you’ve just barely mentioned it.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Archibald, with a solemn visage, “sooner or later Miss Corona Raybold will present herself at this inn on her way home. If you want to know anything about her plan to assist human beings to assert their individualities, it will only be necessary to mention the fact to her.”

“Good-bye, then,” said Peter, shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Archibald. “I don’t know what out-of-the-way thing you two will do next, but, whatever it is, I hope it will bring you here.”

CHAPTER XXVII
MRS. PERKENPINE DELIGHTS THE BISHOP

It was the bishop who first appreciated the fact that a certain air of loneliness had descended upon the shore of the lake. He had prepared breakfast at his camp, but as Mr. Clyde did not make his appearance he went to Camp Rob to look for him. There he saw Matlack and his assistant busy in their kitchen tent, and Mrs. Perkenpine was also engaged in culinary matters. He had left Arthur Raybold asleep at Camp Roy, but of the ladies and gentleman who were usually visible at the breakfast-hour at Camp Rob he saw no signs, and he approached Mrs. Perkenpine to inquire for Clyde. At his question the sturdy woman turned and smiled. It was a queer smile, reminding the bishop of the opening and shutting of a farm gate.

“He’s a one-er,” said she. “Do you suppose he could ketch a rabbit, no matter how fast he ran?”

“Come, now,” said the bishop, “he wasn’t trying to do that?”

“He was either doin’ that, or else he was runnin’ away. I seed him early this mornin’ – I wasn’t up, but I was lookin’ round – and I thought from the way he was actin’ that he’d set a rabbit-trap and was goin’ to see if he’d caught anything, and pretty soon I seed him runnin’ like Sam Hill, as if his rabbit had got away from him. But perhaps it wasn’t that, and maybe somebody skeered him. Anyway, he’s clean gone.”

The bishop stood and reflected; the affair looked serious. Clyde was a practical, sensible fellow – and he was gone. Why did he go?

“Have you seen any of the Archibalds yet?” he asked.

“No,” said she; “I guess they’re not up yet, though it’s late for them. My young woman ain’t up nuther, but it ain’t late for her.”

The bishop walked slowly towards the cabin and regarded it earnestly. After a few minutes inspection he stepped up to the door and knocked. Then he knocked again and again, and hearing nothing from within he became alarmed, and ran to Matlack.

“Hello!” he cried. “Something has happened to your people, or they have gone away. Come to the cabin, quick!”

In less than a minute Matlack, the bishop, and Bill Hammond were at the cabin, and the unfastened door was opened wide. No one was in the house, that was plain enough, but on the floor were four bags packed for transportation.

Matlack looked about him, and then he laughed. “All right,” said he; “there ain’t no need of worryin’ ourselves. They haven’t left a thing of theirs about, everything’s packed up and ready to be sent for. When people do that, you may be sure nothing’s happened to them. They’ve gone off, and I bet it’s to get rid of that young woman’s preachin’. But I don’t blame them; I don’t wonder they couldn’t stand it.”

The bishop made no reply. Remembering his recent conversation with Mrs. Archibald, he believed that, if they had quietly gone away, there was a better reason for it than Miss Raybold’s fluency of expression. It was possible that something might have happened after he had retired from the scene the night before, for when he went to sleep Raybold was still walking up and down in the moonlight.

His mind was greatly disturbed. They were gone, and he was left. “What are you going to do?” he asked Matlack.

“Nothin’ just now,” said the guide. “If they don’t send for their things pretty soon, I’ll go over to Sadler’s and find out what’s the matter. But they’re all right. Look how careful them bags is strapped up!”

The bishop left the cabin and walked thoughtfully away in the direction of Camp Roy. In two minutes he had made up his mind: he would eat his breakfast – he could not travel upon an empty stomach – and then he would depart. That was imperative.

When he reached the camp he found that Raybold had risen and was pouring out for himself a bowl of coffee. Seeing the bishop approach, the young man’s face grew dark, as might have been expected from the events of the night before, and he hurriedly placed some articles of food upon a plate, and was about leaving the stove when the bishop reached him. Raybold turned with a frown, and what was meant to be a glare.

“I shall bide my time,” said he, and with his coffee and his plate he retired to a distance.

The bishop smiled but made no answer, and sat down and ate his meal in peace; then he prepared to depart. He had nothing but a little bag, and it did not take long to put in order the simple culinary department of the camp. When all was done he stood for some minutes thinking. There was a path through the woods which led to the road, so that he might go on to Sadler’s without the knowledge of any one at Camp Rob, but he felt that he ought to see Matlack and tell him that he was going. If anything went wrong at Camp Roy he did not wish to be held responsible for it. Mr. Archibald could afford to go away without saying anything about it, but he could not, and, besides, if he should happen to see Miss Raybold it would be far more gentlemanly to tell her that he was going and to bid her goodbye, than to slip off through the woods like a tramp. He would go, that he was determined upon; but he would go like a man.

When he reached Camp Rob the first person he saw was Miss Raybold, standing near her tent with a roll of paper in her hand. The moment she perceived him she walked rapidly towards him.

“Good-morning,” she said. “Did you know that the Archibalds had gone? I never was so amazed in all my life. I was eating my breakfast when a man and a cart drove up to their cabin, and Mrs. Perkenpine, running to see what this meant, soon came back and told me that the family of three had departed in the night, and had sent this cart for their baggage. I think this was a very uncivil proceeding, and I do not in the least understand it. Can you imagine any reason for this extremely uncourteous action?”

The bishop could imagine reasons, but he did not care to state them.

“It may be,” he said, with a smile, “that they discovered that their natures demanded hotel beds instead of camp cots, and that they immediately departed in obedience to the mandates of their individualities.”

“But in so doing,” said Miss Raybold, “they violated the principles of association. Our scheme included mutual confidence as well as self-investigation and assertion. I must admit that Mr. Archibald disappointed me. I think he misunderstood my project. By holding one’s self entirely aloof from humanity one encourages self-ignorance. But perhaps our party was somewhat too large – the elements too many and inharmonious – and I see no reason why we who remain should relinquish our purpose. I believe it will be easier for us to become truly ourselves than when our number was greater, and so I propose that we make no change whatever in our plans; that we live on, for the time agreed upon, exactly as if the Archibalds were here. And now, if you have a few minutes to spare, I would like to read you something I wrote this morning before I left my tent. I was awake during the night, and thought for a long time upon the subject of mental assimilation, the discussion of which we did not finish last evening, and this morning, while my thoughts were fresh, I put them upon paper, and now I would like to read them to you. Isn’t there some shady place where we might sit down? There are two camp-chairs; will you kindly place them under this tree?”

The bishop sighed, but he went for the chairs. It would be too hard for him to tell her he was going to leave the camp, and he would not try to do it. He would slip off as soon as he had a chance, and leave a note for her. She would not perhaps like that, but it was the best he could do.

The reading of the paper occupied at least half an hour, and when it was finished, and Corona had begun to make some remarks on a portion of it which she had not fully elaborated, Mrs. Perkenpine approached, and stood before her.

“Well, miss,” said she, “I’m off.”

Miss Raybold fixed her eye-glasses upon her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ back to Sadler’s,” she replied. “Phil’s goin’, and I’m goin’. He’s jest told me that the cart’s comin’ back for the kitchen fixin’s and his things, and him and Bill Hammond is goin’ to Sadler’s with it; and if he goes, I goes.”

This speech had a very different effect upon its two hearers. Corona was as nearly angry as her self-contained nature would permit; but, although he did not allow his feelings to betray him, the bishop was delighted. Now they must all go, and that suited him exactly.

“It is a positive and absolute breach of contract!” exclaimed Miss Raybold. “You agreed to remain in my service during my stay in camp, and you have no right to go away now, no matter who else may depart.”

Mrs. Perkenpine grinned. “That sort of thing was all very well a week ago,” said she, “but it won’t work now. I’ve been goin’ to school to myself pretty steady, and I’ve kept myself in a good deal, too, for not knowin’ my lessons, and I’ve drummed into me a pretty good idea of what I be, and I can tell you I’m not a woman as stays here when Phil Matlack’s gone. I’m not a bit scary, but I never stayed in camp yet with all greenhorns but me. When I find myself in that sort of a mess, it’s my nater to get out of it. Phil says he’s goin’ to start the fust thing this afternoon, and that’s the time I’m goin’, and so, if you would like to go, you can send word by that man in the cart to have you and your things sent for, and we can all clear out together.”

“Positively,” exclaimed Corona, turning to the bishop, “this is the most high-handed proceeding I ever heard of!”

“That’s ’xactly what I think,” said Mrs. Perkenpine; “it most takes my breath away to think how high-handed I am. Before I knowed myself I couldn’t have been that way to save my skin. There didn’t use to be any individdlety about me. You might take a quart of huckleberries and ask yourself what it was particular ’bout any one of them huckleberries – ’xceptin’ it might be green, and it’s a long time since I was that way – and you’d know jest as much about that huckleberry as I knowed about myself. Now it’s different. It’s just the same as if there was only one huckleberry in a quart box, and it ain’t no trouble to see all around that.”

“I think, Miss Raybold,” said the bishop, “that this good woman has prosecuted her psychical researches with more effect than any of us.”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Miss Raybold. “Do you really think I must leave this camp at the dictation of that person?”

“’Scuse me,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “but I’m goin’ to scratch things together for movin’. We’ll have dinner here, and then we’ll pack up and be off as soon as the carts come. That’s what Phil says he’s goin’ to do.”

With a satisfied mind and internal gratitude to Mrs. Perkenpine, who had made everything easy for him, the bishop endeavored to make Corona feel that, as her departure from the camp was inevitable, it would be well not to disturb her mind too much about it. But it was of no use trying to console the lady.

“It is too bad,” she said; “it is humiliating. Here I believed that I was truly myself; that I was an independent entity; that I was free to assert my individual nature and to obey its impulses, and now I find that I am nothing but the slave of a female guide. Actually I must obey her, and I must conform to her!”

“It is true,” said the bishop, musingly, “that although we may discover ourselves, and be greatly pleased with the prospect of what we see, we may not be permitted to enter into its enjoyment, and must content ourselves with looking over the fence and longing for what we see.”

Corona faintly smiled. “When we have climbed high enough to see over that fence,” she said, “it becomes our duty to break it down.”

“When I was in England,” said the bishop, “I saw a fence – an oak fence – which they told me had stood for four hundred years. It looked awfully tough, and it now reminds me of some of the manners and customs of civilization.”

“When you were in England,” said Corona, “did you visit Newnham College?”

He never had. But she told him that she had been there for two years. “And now,” she continued, “there may be time enough before I must pack up my effects to finish what I was going to say to you about approximate assimilations.”