“You’ve camped out before?” said Phil Matlack to Mr. Archibald, as he was taking a survey of the scene.
“Oh yes,” said the other, “I’ve been out a few days at a time with fishing-parties, but we never had such a fine camp as this – so well located and such good accommodations.”
“You are a fisherman, then?” said the guide.
“Yes. I am very fond of it. I’ve fished ever since I was a boy, and know a good deal about bait, in spite of what Mr. Sadler said.”
“I had an idea of that sort,” remarked Phil, “but it ain’t no use to contradict Peter. It helps keep up his spirits for him to think he can read the characters of people just as quick as he can aim a rifle. And it’s a mighty important thing to keep Peter’s spirits up. If Peter’s spirits was to go down, things round here would flatten out worse than a rotten punkin when it’s dropped.”
It did not take long to establish the new-comers in their woodland quarters. The tent for the two men, which had arrived in the morning, was pitched not far from the cabin, and then Matlack and Martin went to work to prepare supper. The dining-room in pleasant weather was the small space in front of the house, where there was a table made of a wide board supported by stakes, with a low and narrow board on each side, also resting on stakes, and forming seats.
The supper was a better one and better served than any of the party had expected. The camp outfit included table-cloths, and even napkins.
“To-morrow,” said Matlack, as he brought a dish of hot and savory broiled ham, “after Mr. Archibald gets to work, we’ll have some fish.”
Mrs. Archibald had been a little fearful that under these primitive conditions the two men might expect to sit at the table with them, but she need have had no such fears. Matlack and Martin cooked and waited with a skill and deftness which would have surprised any one who did not reflect that this was as much their business as hunting or woodcraft.
After supper a camp-fire was built at a safe distance from the house, for although the evening air was but slightly cool, a camp without a camp-fire would not be a camp. The party ranged themselves around it, Mrs. Archibald on a rug brought from the cabin, and her husband and Margery on the ground. Mr. Archibald lighted his pipe, the fire lighted the trees and the lake, and joy inexpressible lighted the heart of Margery.
“If I could smoke a pipe,” said she, “and get Mr. Matlack to come here and tell me how he killed a man, I should be perfectly happy.”
That night Mrs. Archibald lay awake on her straw mattress. Absolute darkness was about her, but through the open window she could see, over the tops of the trees on the other side of the lake, one little star.
“If I could get any comfort out of that little star,” thought the good lady, “I would do it; but I can’t do it, and there is nothing else to comfort me.”
On the other side of the room, on another straw mattress, she could hear her husband breathing steadily. Then, upon the bare boards of the floor, which were but a few inches below her little cot-bed, she thought she heard the patter of small feet. A squirrel, perhaps, or, horrible to think of, it might be a rat. She was sure rats would eat straw beds, and her first impulse was to wake Mr. Archibald; but she hesitated, he was sleeping so soundly. Still she listened, and now she became almost certain that what she heard was not the patter of small feet; it sounded more like something soft which was dragging itself over the floor – possibly a snake. This idea was simply awful, and she sat up in bed. Still she did not call Mr. Archibald, for should he suddenly spring on the floor, he would be in more danger from the snake than she was.
She listened and she listened, but she heard nothing more, and then her reason began to assure her that a snake’s movements on a bare floor would be absolutely noiseless; but in a moment all thoughts of serpents were driven from her head. Outside of the cabin she heard a sound that could be nothing less than the footsteps of some living creature – a wild beast, perhaps a panther. The door was shut and fastened, but the window was open. To call Mr. Archibald and tell him a wild beast was walking outside the house would be positively wicked. Half-awakened, he would probably rush out of the door to see what it was. What could she do? For an instant she thought of lighting a candle and standing it in the window. She knew that wild beasts were afraid of fire, and she did not believe that even a panther would dare jump over a lighted candle. But if she struck a match and got up, she would waken her husband; and, besides, if the wind, of which she could feel a puff every now and then, did not blow out the candle, it might blow it over and set fire to the cabin.
She heard the footsteps no more, and lay down again, but not to sleep. The wind seemed to be rising, and made a wild, unearthly sound as it surged through the trees which surrounded and imprisoned her, and shut her out from the world in which she was born and in which she ought to live. There was a far-away sound which came to her ears once, twice, thrice, and which might have been the call of some ghostly bird or the war-whoop of an Indian. At last she drew the covering over her head, determined that, so long as she could not see, she would not hear.
“A wedding-journey!” she said to herself, and the idea, coupled with the sense of her present grewsome and doleful condition, was so truly absurd and ridiculous that she could not restrain a melancholy laugh.
“What is the matter, my dear?” exclaimed Mr. Archibald, suddenly turning over in his bed. “Are you choking? Is the room too close? Shall I open the door?”
“No, indeed,” she said, “for that was a laugh you heard. I couldn’t help laughing at the thought that there should be two such idiots in the world as you and myself.”
“It is idiotic, isn’t it?” said Mr. Archibald. “It is gloriously idiotic, and it will do us both a world of good. It is such a complete and perfect change that I don’t wonder you laugh.” Then he laughed himself, clearly and loudly, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.
Mrs. Archibald felt certain that she would not sleep another wink that night, but she did sleep seven hours and a half, and was awakened by Margery singing outside her window.
CHAPTER VI
CAMP ROY
No thoughts of idiocy crossed the minds of any of the camping party during their first breakfast under the great oak-tree. The air, the sunlight, the rippling waters of the lake, the white clouds in the blue sky, the great trunks of the trees, the rustling of the leaves, the songs of the birds, the hum of insects, the brightness of everything, their wonderful appetites – the sense of all these things more than filled their minds.
For the greater part of that day Mr. Archibald fished, sometimes in a stream which ran into the head of the lake about a quarter of a mile above the camp, and sometimes on the shores of the lake itself. Margery sketched; her night in the studio had filled her with dreams of art, and she had discovered in a corner a portable easel made of hickory sticks with the bark on, and she had tucked some drawing materials into one of her bags.
Mrs. Archibald was a little tired with her journey of the day before, and contented herself with sitting in the shade in pleasant places, occupied with some needle-work she had brought with her, and trying to discipline her mind to habits of happiness in camp. This was not very difficult during the first part of this beautiful day, but towards the end of the afternoon she began to think less of the joys of a free life in the heart of nature and more of the pleasure of putting on her bonnet and going out to make some calls upon her friends. In this state of mind it pleased her to see Phil Matlack coming towards her.
“Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am?” said he.
“No, thank you,” she answered. “It would seem rather odd to have afternoon tea in the woods, and I really don’t care for it.”
“We can have ’most anything in the woods, ma’am,” said Matlack, “that we can have anywhere else, providin’ you don’t mind what sort of fashion you have it in. I thought it might be sort of comfortin’ to you to have a cup of tea. I’ve noticed that in most campin’ parties of the family order there’s generally one or two of them that’s lonesome the first day; and the fact is I don’t count on anything particular bein’ done on the first day in camp, except when the party is regular hunters or fishermen. It’s just as well for some of them to sit round on the first day and let things soak into them, provided it isn’t rain, and the next day they will have a more natural feelin’ about what they really want to do. Now I expect you will be off on some sort of a tramp to-morrow, ma’am, or else be out in the boat; and as for that young lady, she’s not goin’ to sketch no more after to-day. She’s got young Martin out in the boat, restin’ on his oars, while she’s puttin’ him into her picture. She’s rubbed him out so often that I expect he’ll fall asleep and tumble overboard, or else drop one of his oars.”
“Mr. Matlack,” said Mrs. Archibald, “will you please sit down a moment? I want to ask you something.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” said he, and forthwith seated himself on a log near by, picking up a stick as he did so, and beginning to shave the bark from it with his pocket-knife.
“Do you know,” said she, “if there are panthers in these woods?”
Matlack looked up at her quickly. “I expect you heard them walkin’ about your cabin last night,” said he; “and not only panthers, but most likely a bear or two, and snakes rustlin’ in the leaves; and, for all I know, coons or ’possums climbin’ in and out of the window.”
“Oh, nothing so bad as that,” she replied. “I only thought – ”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I didn’t mean that you heard all those things, but most likely a part of them. Hardly any family parties goes into camp that some of them don’t hear wild beasts the first night. But they never come no more. Them kind of wild beasts I call first-nighters, and they’re about the worst kind we’ve got, because they really do hurt people by scratchin’ and clawin’ at their nerves, whereas the real wild beasts in these parts – and they’re mighty scarce, and never come near camp – don’t hurt nobody.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said she. “But what on earth can be keeping Mr. Archibald? When he started out after dinner he said he would be back very soon.”
“Oh, he’s got the fever, ma’am,” said Matlack.
“Fever!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, dropping her work in her lap.
“Oh, don’t be frightened,” said he; “it is only the fishin’ fever. It don’t hurt anybody; it only keeps the meals waitin’. You see, we are pretty nigh the first people out this year, and the fish bite lively. Are you fond of fishin’, ma’am?”
“No, indeed,” said she; “I dislike it. I think it is cruel and slimy and generally unpleasant.”
“I expect you’ll spend most of your time in the boat,” suggested Matlack. “Your husband rows, don’t he?”
“He doesn’t row me,” said Mrs. Archibald, with earnestness. “I never go out in a boat except with a regular boatman. I suppose you have a larger boat than the one that young man is in? I can see it from here, and it looks very small.”
“No, ma’am,” said Matlack; “that’s the only one we’ve got. And now I guess I’ll go see about supper. This has been a lazy day for us, but we always do calc’late on a lazy day to begin with.”
“It strikes me,” said Matlack to himself, as he walked away, “that this here camp will come to an end pretty soon. The man and the young woman could stand it for a couple of weeks, but there’s nothing here for the old lady, and it can’t be long before she’ll have us all out of the woods again.”
“You can come in,” called Margery, about ten minutes after this conversation; and young Martin, who had not the least idea of going to sleep in the boat, dipped his oars in the water and rowed ashore, pulled the boat up on the beach, and then advanced to the spot where Margery was preparing to put away her drawing materials.
“Would you mind letting me see your sketch?” said he.
“Oh no,” said she; “but you’ll see it isn’t very much like the scene itself. When I make a drawing from nature I never copy everything I see just as if I were making a photograph. I suppose you think I ought to draw the boat just as it is, but I always put something of my own in my pictures. And that, you see, is a different kind of a boat from the one you were in. It is something like Venetian boats.”
“It isn’t like anything in this part of the world, that is true,” said the young man, as he held the drawing in his hand; “and if it had been more like a gondola it would not have suited the scene. I think you have caught the spirit of the landscape very well; but if you don’t object to a little criticism, I should say that the shore over there is too near the foreground. It seems to me that the picture wants atmosphere; that would help the distance very much.”
“Do you draw?” asked Margery, in surprise.
“I used to be very fond of sketching,” said he. “I stayed at Sadler’s a good part of the last winter, and when I wasn’t out hunting I made a good many drawings of winter scenes. I would be glad to show them to you when we go back.”
“Well,” said she, “if I had known you were an artist I would not have asked you to go out there and sit as a model.”
“Oh, I am not an artist,” replied Martin; “I only draw, that’s all. But if you make any more water sketches and would like me to put some ducks or any other kind of wild-fowl in the foreground I will be glad to do it for you. I have made a specialty of natural-history drawings. Don’t bother yourself about that easel; I’ll carry up your things for you.”
About half-way to the cabin Margery suddenly stopped and turned round towards the young man, who was following her. “How did you come to be a guide?” she asked.
He smiled. “That’s because I was born a naturalist and a sportsman. I went into business when I finished my education, but I couldn’t stand that, and as I couldn’t afford to become a gentleman sportsman, I came here as a guide. I’m getting a lot of experience in this sort of life, and when I’ve saved money enough I’m going on an exploring expedition, most likely to Central America. That’s the kind of life that will suit me.”
“And write a book about it?” asked Margery.
“Most likely,” said he.
That night, after supper, Margery remarked: “Our two guides are American citizens, and I don’t see why they can’t eat at the table with us instead of waiting until we have finished. We are all free and equal in the woods.”
“Margery Dearborn!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald. “What are you talking about?”
She was going to say that if there were one straw more needed to break her back, that straw would be the sight of the two guides sitting at the table with them, but she restrained herself. She did not want Mr. Archibald to know anything about the condition of her back.
“So long as they don’t want to do it, and don’t do it,” said she, “pray don’t let us say anything about it. Let’s try to make things as pleasant as we can.”
Mr. Archibald was lighting his pipe, and when he was sure the tobacco was sufficiently ignited he took the pipe from his mouth and turned towards his wife.
“Harriet,” said he, “you have been too much alone to-day. I don’t know what I shall do to-morrow; but whatever it is, I am going to take you with me.”
“Of course that depends on what it is you do,” she answered. “But I will try to do everything I can.”
Mr. Archibald heaved a little sigh, which was not noticed by any one, because it sounded like a puff.
“I am afraid,” he thought, “that this camping business is not going to last very much longer, and we shall be obliged to make the rest of our wedding-journey in a different style.”
The next morning, when Mr. Archibald went out of his cabin door, he looked over the lake and saw a bird suddenly swoop down upon the water, breaking the smooth surface into sparkles of silver, and then rise again, a little silvery fish glittering in its claws.
“Beautifully done!” said he. “A splendid stroke!” And then turning, he looked up the lake, and not far from the water’s edge he saw Margery walking with Mr. Clyde, while Mr. Raybold followed a little in the rear.
“Harriet,” he cried, quickly stepping into the cabin again, “look out here! What is the meaning of this?”
Mrs. Archibald was dressed, and came out. When she saw the trio approaching them, she was not so much surprised as was her husband.
“I don’t know the meaning of anything that happens in these woods,” she said; “but if a lot of people have come from the hotel with those young men I cannot say I am sorry.”
“Come,” said her husband, “we must look into this.”
In two minutes the Archibalds had met the new-comers, who advanced with outstretched hands, as if they had been old friends. Mr. Archibald, not without some mental disquietude at this intrusion upon the woodland privacy of his party, was about to begin a series of questions, when he was forestalled by Margery.
“Oh, Uncle Archibald and Aunt Harriet!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold have come out here to camp. Their camp is right next to ours, and it is called Camp Roy. You see, some years ago there was a large camping party came here, and they called the place Camp Rob Roy, but it was afterwards divided, and one part called Camp Rob and the other Camp Roy.”
“Indeed!” interrupted Mr. Archibald. “Mr. Sadler did not tell us that ours was only half a camp with only half a name.”
“I don’t suppose he thought of it,” said Margery. “And the line between the two camps is just three hundred feet above our cabin. I don’t suppose anybody ever measures it off, but there it is; and Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold have taken Camp Roy, which hasn’t any house on it. They started before daybreak this morning, and brought a tent along with them, which they have pitched just back of that little peninsula; and they haven’t any guide, because they want to attend to their own cooking and everything, and the man who brought the tent and other things has gone back. They are going to live there just like real backwoodsmen, and they have a boat of their own, which is to be brought up from the bottom of the lake somewhere – I mean from the lower end of the lake. And, Aunt Harriet, may I speak to you a moment?”
With this the young woman drew Mrs. Archibald aside, and in a low voice asked if she thought it would be out of the way to invite the two young men to take breakfast with them, as it was not likely they had all their cooking things in order so early.
Five people sat down to breakfast under the great oak-tree, and it was a lively meal. Mr. Archibald’s mental disquiet, in which were now apparent some elements of resentment, had not subsided, but the state of his mind did not show itself in his demeanor, and he could not help feeling pleased to see that his wife was in better spirits. He had always known that she liked company.
After breakfast he took Matlack aside. “I don’t understand this business,” said he. “When I hired this camp I supposed we were to have it to ourselves; but if there are other camps jammed close against it we may be in the midst of a great public picnic before a week is out.”
“Oh, that camp over there isn’t much of a camp,” replied the guide. “The fact is, it is only the tail end of a camp, and I don’t suppose Peter Sadler thought anybody would be likely to take it just now, and so didn’t think it worth while to speak of it. Of course it’s jammed up against this one, as you say; but then the people in one camp haven’t the right to cross the line into another camp if the people in the other camp don’t want them to.”
“Line!” said Mr. Archibald. “It is absurd to think of lines in a place like this. And I have no intention of making myself disagreeable by ordering people off my premises. But I would like to know if there is another camp three hundred feet on this side of our cabin, or three hundred feet back of it.”
“No, sir,” said Matlack, speaking promptly; “there isn’t another camp between this and the lower end of the lake. There’s a big one there, and it’s taken; but the people aren’t coming until next month.”
“If a larger party had taken Camp Roy,” said Mr. Archibald to his wife a little later, “I should not mind it so much. But two young men! I do not like it.”
CHAPTER VII
A STRANGER
It was at the close of a pleasant afternoon four days after the arrival of the young men at Camp Roy, and Mrs. Archibald was seated on a camp-stool near the edge of the lake intently fishing. By her side stood Phil Matlack, who had volunteered to interpose himself between her and all the disagreeable adjuncts of angling. He put the bait upon her hook, he told her when her cork was bobbing sufficiently to justify a jerk, and when she caught a little fish he took it off the hook. Fishing in this pleasant wise had become very agreeable to the good lady, and she found pleasures in camp life which she had not anticipated. Her husband was in a boat some distance out on the lake, and he was also fishing, but she did not care for that style of sport; the fish were too big and the boat too small.
A little farther down the lake Martin Sanders sat busily engaged in putting some water-fowl into the foreground of Margery’s sketch. A critical observer might have noticed that he had also made a number of changes in said sketch, all of which added greatly to its merits as a picture of woodland scenery. At a little distance Margery was sitting at her easel making a sketch of Martin as an artist at work in the woods. The two young men had gone off with their guns, not perhaps because they expected to find any legitimate game at that season, but hoping to secure some ornithological specimens, or to get a shot at some minor quadrupeds unprotected by law. Another reason for their expedition could probably have been found in some strong hints given by Mr. Archibald that it was unwise for them to be hanging around the camps and taking no advantage of the opportunities for sport offered by the beautiful weather and the forest.
It was not long before Margery became convinced that the sketch on which she was working did not resemble her model, nor did it very much resemble an artist at work in the woods.
“It looks a good deal more like a cobbler mending shoes,” she said to herself, “and I’ll keep it for that. Some day I will put a bench under him and a shoe in his hand instead of a sketch.” With that she rose, and went to see how Martin was getting on. “I think,” she said, “those dark ducks improve the picture very much. They throw the other things back.” Then she stopped, went to one side, and gazed out over the lake. “I wonder,” she said, “if there is really any fun in fishing. Uncle Archibald has been out in that boat for more than two hours, and he has fished almost every day since he’s been here. I should think he would get tired of it.”
“Oh no,” said Martin, looking up with animation. “If you know how to fish, and there is good sport, you never get tired of it.”
“I know how to fish,” said Margery, “and I do not care about it at all.”
“You know how to fish?” said Martin. “Can you make a cast with a fly?”
“I never tried that,” said she. “But I have fished as Aunt Harriet does, and it is easy as can be.”
“Oh,” said he, “you don’t know anything about fishing unless you have fished with a fly. That is the only real sport. It is as exciting as a battle. If you would let me teach you how to throw a fly, I am sure you would never find fishing tiresome, and these woods would be like a new world to you.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself, then?” she asked.
“Because I am paid to do other things,” he replied. “We are not sent here simply to enjoy ourselves, though I must say that I – ” And then he suddenly stopped. “I wish you would let me teach you fly-fishing. I know you would like it.”
Margery looked at the eager face turned towards her, and then she gazed out over the water.
“Perhaps I might like it,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be necessary for you to take that trouble. Uncle Archibald has two or three times asked me to go out with him, and of course he would teach me how to fish as he does. Isn’t that somebody calling you?”
“Yes,” said Martin, rising; “it’s Phil. I suppose it’s nearly supper-time.”
As they walked towards the camp, Margery in front, and Martin behind her carrying the drawing-materials and the easel, Margery suddenly turned.
