Two days after the rainy day in camp Mr. Archibald determined to take the direction of affairs into his own hands, so far as he should be able. Having no authority over the two young men at Camp Roy, he had hitherto contented himself with a disapproval of their methods of employing their time, which he communicated only to his wife. But now he considered that, as they were spending so much of their time in his camp and so little in their own, he would take charge of them exactly as if they belonged to his party. He would put an end, if possible, to the aimless strolls up and down the beach with Margery, and the long conversations of which that young woman had grown to be so fond, held sometimes with both young men, though more frequently with one. If Clyde and Raybold came into the woods to lounge in the shade and talk to a girl, they must go to some other camp to do it. But if they really cared to range the forest, either as sportsmen or lovers of nature, he would do his best to help them; so this day he organized an expedition to a low mountain about two miles away, taking Matlack with him as guide, and inviting the two young men to join him. They had assented because no good reason for declining had presented itself, and because Phil Matlack earnestly urged them to come along and let him show them what a real forest tramp was like. Before his recent talk with Peter Sadler, Phil would not have dared to go out into the woods in company with the bicycle man.

The two ladies were perfectly willing to remain in camp under the charge of Martin, who was capable of defending them against any possible danger; and as the bishop had agreed to take charge of Camp Roy during the absence of its occupants, Mr. Archibald planned for a whole day’s tramp, the first he had taken since they went into camp.

When Martin’s morning work was done he approached the shady spot where the two ladies had established themselves, and offered to continue his lessons in fish-flying if Miss Dearborn so desired. But Miss Dearborn did not wish to take any lessons to-day. She would rest and stay with Mrs. Archibald. Even the elder lady did not care to fish that morning. The day was hot and the shade was grateful.

Martin walked away dissatisfied. In his opinion, there had never been a day more suitable for angling; this was a day which would be free from interruptions, either from two young fellows who knew nothing about real game-fishing, or from Matlack, who always called him away to do something when he was most interested in his piscatorial pedagogics. This was a day when he could stand by that lovely girl, give her the rod, show her how to raise it, wave it, and throw it, and sometimes even touch her hand as he took it from her or gave it back, watching her all the time with an admiration and delight which no speckled trout or gamy black bass had ever yet aroused in him, and all this without fear that a gentleman out on the lake might possibly be observing them with the idea that he was more interested in his work than the ordinary guide might be supposed to be. But luck was against him, and Martin, who did not in the least consider himself an ordinary guide, walked up and down in moody reflection, or grimly threw himself upon the ground, gazing upward at the sky – not half so blue as he was – but never walking or resting so far away that he could not hear the first cry from her should snake, bear, dragon-fly, or danger of any kind approach her.

To the ladies, about half an hour later, came the bishop, who, newly shaved and brushed, wished them good-morning, and offered his services in any manner which might be desired. If Mrs. Archibald wished to fish by the side of the lake, he was at her service; but Mrs. Archibald did not care to fish.

“This is a most charming day,” said the bishop, removing his hat, “but I suppose it is more charming to me because it is my last day here.”

“And so you are really going to go?” said Mrs. Archibald, smiling.

“I suppose you think I am not likely to get there,” said he, “but really I have stayed here long enough, and for several reasons.”

“Sit down,” said Margery, “and tell us what they are. There is a nice little rock with some moss on it.”

The bishop promptly accepted the invitation and seated himself. As he did so, Martin, at a little distance, scowled, folded his arms, and slightly increased the length of his sentinel-like walk.

“Yes,” said the bishop, brushing some pine leaves from his threadbare trousers, “during the time that I have accepted the hospitality of those young gentlemen I feel that I have in a great measure repaid them for their kindness, but now I see that I shall become a burden and an expense to them. In the first place, I eat a great deal more than both of them put together, so that the provisions they brought with them will be exhausted much sooner than they expected. I am also of the opinion that they are getting tired of eating in their own camp, but as I make a point of preparing the meals at stated hours, of course they feel obliged to partake of them.”

“By which you mean, I suppose,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that if they had not you to cook for them they would be apt to take a good many meals with us, as they did when they first came, and which would be cheaper and pleasanter.”

“I beg, madam,” said the bishop, quickly, “that you will not think that they have said anything of the sort. I simply inferred, from remarks I have heard, that one of them, at least, is very much of the opinion you have just stated; therefore I feel that I cannot be welcome much longer in Camp Roy. There is also another reason why I should go now. I have a business prospect before me.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Is it a good one?”

“I think it is,” said the bishop. “I have been considering it earnestly, and the more I fix my mind upon it the greater appear its advantages. I don’t mind in the least telling you what it is. A gentleman who is acquainted with my family and whom I have met two or three times, but not recently, possesses a very fine estate some thirty miles south of this place. He has been in Europe for some time, but is expected to return to his country mansion about the end of this week. It is my purpose to offer myself to him in the capacity of private librarian. I do not think it will be difficult to convince him that I have many qualifications for the situation.”

“Has he so many books that he needs a librarian?” asked Margery.

“No,” said the bishop, “I have no reason to suppose that he has any more books than the ordinary country gentleman possesses, but he ought to have. He has a very large income, and is now engaged in establishing for his family what is intended to become, in time, an ancestral mansion. It is obvious to any one of intelligence that such a grand mansion would not be complete without a well-selected library, and that such a library could not be selected or arranged by an ordinary man of affairs. Consequently, unless he has a competent person to perform this duty for him, his library, for a long time, will be insignificant. When I shall put the question before him, I have no doubt that he will see and appreciate the force and value of my statements. Such a position will suit me admirably. I shall ask but little salary, but it will give me something far better than money – an opportunity to select from the book marts of the whole world the literature in which I delight. Consequently, you will see that it is highly desirable that I should be on hand when this gentleman arrives upon his estate.”

With a look of gentle pity Mrs. Archibald gazed at the smooth round face of the bishop, flushed with the delights of anticipation and brightened by the cheery smile which nearly always accompanied his remarks. “And is that your only prospect?” she said. “I don’t want to discourage you, but it seems to me that if you had some regular business – and you are not too old to learn something of the sort – it would be far better for you than trying to obtain the mythical position you speak of. I see that you are a man of intelligence and education, and I believe that you would succeed in almost any calling to which you would apply yourself with earnestness and industry. You must excuse me for speaking so plainly, but I am much older than you are and I do it for your good.”

“Madam,” exclaimed the bishop, radiant with grateful emotion, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have said. I thank you for your appreciation of me and for the generous motive of your words, but, to be frank with you, I am not suited to a calling such as you have mentioned. I have many qualities which I well know would promote my fortunes were they properly applied, but that application is difficult, for the reason that my principal mental characteristic is indefiniteness. When but a little child I was indefinite. Nobody knew what I was going to do, or how I would turn out; no one has since known, and no one knows now. In whatever way I have turned my attention in my endeavors to support myself, I have been obstructed and even appalled by the definiteness of the ordinary pursuits of life. Now the making of a private library is in itself an indefinite occupation. It has not its lines, its rules, its limitations. But do not think, kind lady, that I shall always depend upon such employment. Should I obtain it, I should hold it only so long as it would be necessary, and it may be necessary for but a little while. Do you care to hear of my permanent prospects?” said he, looking from one lady to the other.

“Certainly,” said Margery, “we would like to hear all you have to tell.”

“Well then,” said the bishop, folding his arms and smiling effusively, but with a gentle curbing of his ordinary cheerfulness, “I will inform you that I have an uncle who is a man of wealth and well on in years. Unfortunately, or fortunately it may be, this uncle greatly dislikes me. He objects so strongly to my methods of thought and action, and even to my physical presence, that he cannot bear to hear me speak or even to look at me, and the last time I was in his company, about four years ago, he told me that he would leave me a legacy on condition that he should never hear from me or see me again. He promised to make the proper provision in his will immediately, but declared, and I know he will keep his word, that if he ever received a letter from me or even saw me or heard my voice he would instantly strike out that clause. I appreciated and respected his feelings, and accepted the condition. From that moment I have not written to him, nor shall I ever write to him, and I shall never go near him so long as he is alive. As I said, he is of advanced age, and it is impossible that he can long survive. When his demise takes place my circumstances will, I believe, be satisfactory.”

“Did your uncle say how much he would leave you?” asked Mrs. Archibald.

“No, madam,” returned the other, “he did not, but I feel sure that the sum will be measured by his satisfaction in knowing that his existence is entirely freed from me.”

“Really,” said Mrs. Archibald, “there is nothing about you so indefinite as your prospects.”

“And it seems horrible to me,” said Margery, “to be hoping that some one may die in order that you may be better off, for, as you want money so much, you must hope that your uncle will die.”

The bishop smiled and rose. “And now,” said he, “I suppose I must go to prepare the dinner at Camp Roy. There is nobody but myself to eat it, but I have assumed the duty, and it must be performed. Good-morning. By your leave, I shall look in upon you again.”

Mrs. Archibald had a mind to ask him to stay and dine with them, but having noticed an unfriendly expression on the face of Martin when his gloomy walk brought him in her direction, she thought it would not be wise to do so.

CHAPTER XI
MARGERY TAKES THE OARS

After dinner Mrs. Archibald prepared herself for a nap, the most delightful thing she could think of during the warm hours of such a day. Margery, after seeing the elder lady comfortably disposed in the shady sitting-room of the cabin, went out-of-doors with no doubt in her mind as to what would be for her the most delightful thing to do. She would take a row on the lake all by herself.

She went down to the boat, which was partly drawn up on the beach and fastened to a heavy stake. But when she reached it she was disgusted to find that the chain was secured to the stake by a padlock. The oars were in the boat, and she could easily have pushed it into the water, but she could not set it free without the key to the padlock.

“I do believe,” she exclaimed, “that the will of that horrid Mr. Sadler is like gas. It goes everywhere, even to the tops of the houses and under the beds.” But she did not give up her intention. She tried to detach the chain from the boat, but finding this impossible, she thought of going for Martin. Perhaps he might have a key. This idea, however, she quickly put aside. If he had a key, and gave it to her, she might get him into trouble, and, besides, she did not believe that he would let her go alone, and in any other way she did not wish to go. Standing with her pretty brows knit, and one heel deep in the soft ground into which she had stamped it, she heard approaching footsteps, and turning, saw the bishop. He came forward with a buoyant step.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Dearborn?” he said. “Do you wish to go out on the lake? Do you want some one to row you?”

“Yes and no,” said Margery. “I want to go out in the boat, and I don’t want anybody to row me. But that chain is fastened with an abominable padlock, and I cannot launch the boat.”

“One of your guides is here,” said he. “Perhaps I can get a key from him.”

“No, no,” said Margery, quickly; “he must not know about it. There is a Sadler law against it, and he is employed by Sadler.”

“It is very securely fastened,” said the bishop, examining the lock and chain. “It is the work of the guide Matlack, I have no doubt. But, Miss Dearborn,” said he, with a bright smile, “there is a boat at Camp Roy. That is not locked, and I can bring it here in twenty minutes.”

“No,” said Margery; “I don’t want that boat. I’ve seen it. It is a clumsy old thing, and, besides, it leaks. I want this one. This is just the kind of boat I want to row. It is too bad! If I could get off now there would be nobody to hinder me, for Martin is washing the dinner dishes, or doing something of that kind, and whenever he does house-work he always keeps himself out of sight.”

The bishop examined the stake. It was a stout little tree trunk driven deep into the ground and projecting about five feet above the surface, with the chain so wrapped around it that it was impossible to force it up or down. Seizing the stake near the top, the bishop began to push it backward and forward, and being a man of great strength, he soon loosened it so much that, stooping, he was able to pull it from the ground.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Margery. “It came up just like pulling a tooth.”

“Yes,” said the radiant bishop, “the good Matlack may be very careful about fastening a boat, but I think I have got the better of him this time; and now I will put the stake, chain and all, in the bow. That is the best way of disposing of them. Are you sure that you prefer going alone? I shall be delighted to row you if you wish me to.”

“Oh no,” said Margery; “I am just wild to row myself, and I want to hurry and get off for fear Martin will be coming down here.”

“Are you sure you understand rowing and the management of a boat?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she replied, “I can row; of course I can. I will get in, and then you can push off the boat.”

“Allow me,” said the bishop. But before he could reach her to help her, Margery stepped quickly into the boat and was about to seat herself.

“If you will take the seat next to the stern,” said the bishop, holding the boat so that it would be steady, “I think that will be better. Then the weight of the stake in the bow will put the boat on an even keel.”

“All right,” said Margery, accepting his suggestion and seating herself. “Now just wait until I get the oars into the rowlocks, and then you can push me off.”

“Which way do you intend to row?” asked the bishop.

“Oh, I shall go down towards the lower end of the lake, because that way there are more bushes along the banks and Martin will be less apt to see me. If I go the other way I will be in plain sight of the camp, and he may think he ought to do something – fire a gun across my bows to bring me to, maybe, as they do at sea.”

“Hardly,” said the bishop, “but let me advise you not to go very far from the shore, so that if you feel tired you can come in easily, and if you will allow me I will walk down the shore in the direction in which you intend to row.”

“Oh, I am not going to get tired,” said she. “I could row all day. It is splendid to be in a boat all by myself and have the whole management of it. Now please push me off.”

With some reluctance, but with a sincere desire to make the young girl happy, which could not be overcome by prudence – at least by such prudence as he possessed – the bishop, with a strong, steady push, sent the boat well out on the surface of the water.

“That was beautifully done,” Margery called back to him. “Now I have room enough to turn around without any trouble at all.”

She turned the boat about with its bow towards the lower end of the lake, but it was not done without trouble. “I have not rowed for a good while,” she said, “but I am getting used to the oars already. Now then, I’m off,” and she began to pull with a strength which, had it been suitably paired with skill, would have made her an excellent amateur oarswoman. But the place of skill was supplied by enthusiasm and determination. Once or twice an oar slipped from the rowlock and she nearly went over backward, and several times one of the blades got under the water with the flat side up, so that she had difficulty in getting it out. She raised her oars much too high in the air, but she counterbalanced this by sinking them very deep into the water. But she got on, and although her course was somewhat irregular, its general trend was in the direction desired.

The bishop walked along the bank, keeping as near to the water as he could. Sometimes masses of shrubbery shut off all view of the lake, and then there would be an open space where he would stop and watch the boat.

“Please keep near the shore, Miss Dearborn,” he called, “that will be better, I think, and it is certainly more shady and pleasant than farther out.”

“I know what you mean,” cried Margery, pulling away in high good-humor, “you think it is safer near the shore; but I am not going to row very far this time, and after a little while I may pull the boat in and rest for a time before starting back,” and then she rowed on with renewed energy.

The next time the bishop was able to hail the boat, it was at a point where he was obliged to push his way through the bushes in order to see out upon the lake.

“Miss Dearborn,” he called, “I think you are a great deal too far from shore, and you must be getting very tired and hot. Your face is greatly flushed. I will hurry along and see if I can find a good place for you to stop and cool yourself.”

“I am all right,” cried Margery, resting on her oars. “I get along very well, only the boat doesn’t steer properly. I think it is because of the weight of that stick in the bow. I suppose I cannot get rid of it?”

“Oh no!” cried the bishop, in alarm; “please don’t think of it! But if you touch shore at the first open space, I think I can arrange it better for you.”

“Very good,” said she; “you go ahead and find such a place, and I will come in.”

“If you touch shore,” said the bishop to himself, “you don’t go out again in that boat alone! You don’t know how to row at all.”

The bishop ran a hundred yards or more before he found a place at which a boat could be beached. It was not a very good place, but if he could reach out and seize the bow, that would be enough for him. He was strong enough to pull that boat over a paved street.

As he looked out over the water he saw that Margery had progressed considerably since he had seen her last, but she was still farther from shore than before.

“Row straight towards me!” he shouted. “Here is a fine landing-place, cool and shady.”

She looked around and managed to turn the boat’s head in his direction. Then she rowed hard, pulling and splashing, and evidently a little tired. She was strong, but this unusual exercise was a trial to her muscles. Perhaps, too, she felt that the bishop was watching her, and that made her a little nervous, for she could not help being aware that she was not handling the oars as well as when she started out. With a strong pull at her right oar to turn the boat inland, she got her left oar tangled between the water and the boat, so it seemed to her, and lost her hold of it. In a moment it was overboard and floating on the lake.

Leaning over the side of the boat, she made a grasp at the oar, but it was too far for her to reach it; and then, by a spasmodic movement of the other oar, the distance was increased.

The bishop’s face grew pale. As he looked at her he saw that she was moving away from the floating oar, and now he understood why she had progressed so well. There was a considerable current in the lake which had carried her along, and was now moving the heavy boat much faster than it moved the oar. What should he tell her to do? If she could put her single oar out at the stern, she might scull the boat; but he was sure she did not understand sculling, and to try it she would have to stand up, and this would be madness.

She now took the other oar from the rowlock, and was about to rise, when the bishop shouted to her.

“What are you going to do?” he cried.

“I am going to the stern,” she said, “to see if I cannot reach that oar with this one. Perhaps I can pull it in.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t do that!” he cried. “Don’t stand up, or the boat will tip, and you will fall overboard.”

“But what can I do?” she called back. “I can’t row with one oar.”

“Try rowing a little on one side, and then on the other,” said he. “Perhaps you can bring in the boat in that way.”

She followed his suggestion, but very awkwardly, and he saw plainly that she was tired. Instead of approaching the shore, the boat continued to float down the lake.

Margery turned again. “Bishop,” she cried, “what shall I do? I must do something, or I can’t get ashore at all.”

She did not look frightened; there was more of annoyance in her expression, as if she thought it impertinent in fate to treat her in this way, and she would not stand it.

“If I had thought of the current,” said the bishop to himself, “I would never have let her go out alone, and she can’t be trusted in that boat another minute longer. She will do something desperate.” So saying, the bishop took off his hat and threw it on the ground. Then he unbuttoned his coat and began to take it off, but he suddenly changed his mind. Even in that wilderness and under these circumstances he must appear respectable, so he buttoned his coat again, hastily took off his shoes, and, without hesitating, walked into the water until it was above his waist, and then calling to Margery that he was coming to her, he began to swim out into the lake. He did not strike out immediately for the boat, but directed his course towards the floating oar. Turning his head frequently towards Margery, he could see that she was sitting perfectly still, watching him, and so he kept on with a good heart.

The bishop was a powerful swimmer, but he found great difficulty in making his way through the water, on account of the extreme tightness of his clothes. It seemed to him that his arms and legs were bandaged in splints, as if he had been under a surgeon’s care; but still he struck out as well as he could, and in time reached the oar. Pushing this before him to the boat, Margery took hold of it.

“You swim splendidly,” said she. “You can climb in right here.”

But the bishop knew better than that, and worked his way round to the stern, and after holding on a little while to get his breath, he managed to clamber into the boat.

“Was the water very cold?” said she.

On his replying that it was, she said she thought so because he seemed stiff.

“Now, Miss Dearborn,” said he, “I have made the stern seat very wet, but I don’t believe you will mind that, and if you will sit here I will take the oars and row you in.”

“Oh, I think I can do that myself,” said Margery. “I am rested now, and I am ever so much obliged to you for getting my oar for me.”

Under almost any circumstances the bishop could smile, and now he smiled at the ridiculousness of the idea of Margery’s rowing that boat back against the current, and with him in it.

“Indeed,” said he, “I must insist. I shall freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by exercise.” So, reaching out his hand, he assisted Margery to the stern, and seating himself in her place, he took the oars, which she had drawn in.

“I don’t see why I could not make the boat go along that way,” said she, as they began to move steadily towards the camp. “I believe I could do it if people would only let me practise by myself; but they always want to show me how, and I hate to have anybody show me how. It is funny,” she continued, “that you seem so very wet all but your collar. That looks as smooth and nice as if it had just come from the laundry.”

The bishop laughed. “That is because it is gutta-percha,” he said, “intended for rough use in camp; but the rest of my habiliments were not intended for wet weather.”

“And you have no hat,” said she. “Doesn’t the sun hurt your head?”

“My head does feel a little warm,” said he, “but I didn’t want to row back to the place where I left my hat. It was not a good landing-place, after all. Besides,” he said to himself, “I never thought of my hat or my shoes.”