________________________________________________
_ For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, our
conversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding the
probable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had
done right, but we felt badly about it. It was not hospitable, to
be sure; but then I should have no other holiday until next year,
and our friends could come at any time to see us.
The next morning old John brought a note from Pomona. It was
written with pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin
of a newspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit."
"So you've got company," said old John, with a smile. "That's a
queer gal of yourn. She says I mustn't tell 'em you're here. As
if I'd tell 'em!"
We knew well enough that old John was not at all likely to do
anything that would cut off the nice little revenue he was making
out of our camp, and so we felt no concern on that score.
But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to
go to the house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another
note.
We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly
eleven o'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from
Pomona:
"She says she's a-comin' herself as soon as she can get a chance to
slip off."
This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused
mass of probabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible
it seemed to be a party to this concealment and in league with a
servant-girl who has to "slip off!"
Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath.
"In all my life," said she, "I never see people like them two. I
thought I was never goin' to get away."
"Are they there yet?" cried Euphemia.
"How long are they going to stay?"
"Dear knows!" replied Pomona. "Their valise came up by express
last night."
"Oh, we'll have to go up to the house," said Euphemia. "It won't
do to stay away any longer."
"Well," said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, "if you know'd
all I know, I don't think you'd think so."
"What do you mean?" said Euphemia.
"Well, ma'am, they've just settled down and taken possession of the
whole place. He says to me that he know'd you'd both want them to
make themselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought
they'd better do it. He asked me did I think you would be home by
Monday, and I said I didn't know, but I guessed you would. So says
he to his wife, 'Won't that be a jolly lark? We'll just keep house
for them here till they come. And he says he would go down to the
store and order some things, if there wasn't enough in the house,
and he asked her to see what would be needed, which she did, and
he's gone down for 'em now. And she says that, as it was Saturday,
she'd see that the house was all put to rights; and after breakfast
she set me to sweepin'; and it's only by way of her dustin' the
parlor and givin' me the little girl to take for a walk that I got
off at all."
"But what have you done with the child?" exclaimed Euphemia.
"Oh, I left her at old Johnses."
"And so you think they're pleased with having the house to
themselves?" I said.
"Pleased, sir?" replied Pomona; "they're tickled to death."
"But how do you like having strangers telling you what to do?"
asked Euphemia.
"Oh, well," said Pomona, "he's no stranger, and she's real
pleasant, and if it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind."
Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We
would remember this.
Pomona now hurried off, and we seriously discussed the matter, and
soon came to the conclusion that while it might be the truest
hospitality to let our friends stay at our house for a day or two
and enjoy themselves, still it would not do for us to allow
ourselves to be governed by a too delicate sentimentality. We must
go home and act our part of host and hostess.
Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast-time,
giving the place a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy
her for so long a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to
put in a full half-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of
the trees. We had been so fully occupied with our own affairs that
we had paid very little attention to her, but she had probably
heard pretty much all that had been said.
At noon we paid her (giving her, at her suggestion, something extra
in lieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take), and
told her to send her husband, with his wagon, as soon as possible,
as we intended to break up our encampment. We determined that we
would pack everything in John's wagon, and let him take the load to
his house, and keep it there until Monday, when I would have the
tent and accompaniments expressed to their owner. We would go home
and join our friends. It would not be necessary to say where we
had been.
It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had
enjoyed the novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the
next week, to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It
seemed like losing all our labor and expenditure, to break up now,
but there was no help for it. Our place was at home.
We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would
certainly have come had they known we were there, but we had no
accommodations for them, neither had we any desire for even
transient visitors. Besides, we both thought that we would prefer
that our ex-boarder and his wife should not know that we were
encamped on that little peninsula.
We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the
afternoon passed away without bringing old John. Between five and
six o'clock along came his oldest boy, with a bucket of water.
"I'm to go back after the milk," he said.
"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his wagon? We've
been waiting for him for hours."
"The horse is si-- I mean he's gone to Ballville for oats."
"And why didn't he send and tell me?" I asked.
"There wasn't nobody to send," answered the boy.
"You are not telling the truth," exclaimed Euphemia; "there is
always some one to send, in a family like yours."
To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go
after the milk.
"We want you to bring no milk," I cried, now quite angry. "I want
you to go down to the station, and tell the driver of the express-
wagon to come here immediately. Do you understand? Immediately."
The boy declared he understood, and started off quite willingly.
We did not prefer to have the express-wagon, for it was too public
a conveyance, and, besides, old John knew exactly how to do what
was required. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The
express-wagon did not come.
When it became dark, we saw that we could not leave that night.
Even if a wagon did come, it would not be safe to drive over the
fields in the darkness. And we could not go away and leave the
camp-equipage. I proposed that Euphemia should go up to the house,
while I remained in camp. But she declined. We would keep
together, whatever happened, she said.
We unpacked our cooking-utensils and provisions, and had supper.
There was no milk for our coffee, but we did not care. The evening
did not pass gayly. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and
the express-boy, though, perhaps, it was not their fault. I had
given them no notice that I should need them.
And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy and
subterfuge which now had become really necessary, if we did not
wish to hurt our friends' feelings.
The first thing that I thought of, when I opened my eyes in the
morning, was the fact that we would have to stay there all day, for
we could not move on Sunday.
But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast (we found that
the water and the milk had been brought very early, before we were
up) she stated that she did not intend to be treated in this way.
She was going up to old John's house herself; and away she went.
In less than half an hour, she returned, followed by old John and
his wife, both looking much as if they had been whipped.
"These people," said she, "have entered into a conspiracy against
us. I have questioned them thoroughly, and have made them answer
me. The horse was at home yesterday, and the boy did not go after
the express-wagon. They thought that if they could keep us here,
until our company had gone, we would stay as long as we originally
intended, and they would continue to make money out of us. But
they are mistaken. We are going home immediately."
At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might have
consulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much
in earnest, and I would not have any discussion before these
people.
"Now, listen!" said Euphemia, addressing the down-cast couple, "we
are going home, and you two are to stay here all this day and to-
night, and take care of these things. You can't work to-day, and
you can shut up your house, and bring your whole family here if you
choose. We will pay you for the service,--although you do not
deserve a cent,--and we will leave enough here for you to eat. You
must bring your own sheets and pillowcases, and stay here until we
see you on Monday morning."
Old John and his wife agreed to this plan with the greatest
alacrity, apparently well pleased to get off so easily; and, having
locked up the smaller articles of camp-furniture, we filled a
valise with our personal baggage and started off home.
Our house and grounds never looked prettier than they did that
morning, as we stood at the gate. Lord Edward barked a welcome
from his shed, and before we reached the door, Pomona came running
out, her face radiant.
"I'm awful glad to see you back," she said; "though I'd never have
said so while you was in camp."
I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was
growing splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was
in first-rate order, and there were two broods of little yellow
puffy chicks.
Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures,
one by one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call them
tootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona,
and soon afterward by Euphemia.
The cow was all right.
"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look
exactly like it ought to, yet, and the skim-milk I didn't know what
to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day,
and was real mad once because I had given a lot of it to the dog,
and couldn't let him have but a pint."
"He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to
the house. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk."
We laughed, and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home.
"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually
forgotten them.
"Oh! they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off
right after breakfast."
We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our
dear home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-
doors we rushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden.
Everything now seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We
went from room to room, and seemed to appreciate better than ever
what a charming home we had.
We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all
about the Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife
was training to be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia
was summoned to a consultation in the kitchen.
Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as
the state of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and
then we sat down to the table and began to eat slowly. But they
did not come. We finished our meal, and they were still absent.
We now became quite anxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we
should go and look for them.
We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river.
An unpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind, and
perhaps the same thing happened to Euphemia, for, without saying
anything to each other, we both turned toward the path that led to
the peninsula. We crossed the field, climbed the fence, and there,
in front of the tent sat our old boarder splitting sticks with the
camp-hatchet.
"Hurrah!" he cried, springing to his feet when he saw us. "How
glad I am to see you back! When did you return? Isn't this
splendid?"
"What?" I said, as we shook hands.
"Why this," he cried, pointing to the tent. "Don't you see? We're
camping out."
"You are?" I exclaimed, looking around for his wife, while Euphemia
stood motionless, actually unable to make a remark.
"Certainly we are. It's the rarest bit of luck. My wife and Adele
will be here directly. They've gone to look for water-cresses.
But I must tell you how I came to make this magnificent find. We
started out for a walk this morning, and we happened to hit on this
place, and here we saw this gorgeous tent with nobody near but a
little tow-headed boy."
"Only a boy?" cried Euphemia.
"Yes, a young shaver of about nine or ten. I asked him what he was
doing here, and he told me that this tent belonged to a gentleman
who had gone away, and that he was here to watch it until he came
back. Then I asked him how long the owner would probably be away,
and he said he supposed for a day or two. Then a splendid idea
struck me. I offered the boy a dollar to let me take his place: I
knew that any sensible man would rather have me in charge of his
tent, than a young codger like that. The boy agreed as quick as
lightning, and I paid him and sent him off. You see how little he
was to be trusted! The owner of this tent will be under the
greatest obligations to me. Just look at it!" he cried. "Beds,
table, stove,--everything anybody could want. I've camped out lots
of times, but never had such a tent as this. I intended coming up
this afternoon after my valise, and to tell your girl where we are.
But here is my wife and little Adele."
In the midst of the salutations and the mutual surprise, Euphemia
cried:
"But you don't expect to camp out, now? You are coming back to our
house?"
"You see," said the ex-boarder, "we should never have thought of
doing anything so rude, had we supposed you would have returned so
soon. But your girl gave us to understand that you would not be
back for days, and so we felt free to go at any time; and I did not
hesitate to make this arrangement. And now that I have really
taken the responsibility of the tent and fixtures on myself, I
don't think it would be right to go away and leave the place,
especially as I don't know where to find that boy. The owner will
be back in a day or two, and I would like to explain matters to him
and give up the property in good order into his hands. And, to
tell the truth, we both adore camping-out, and we may never have
such a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to
forage this morning, and found an old fellow living near by who
sold me a lot of provisions--even some coffee and sugar--and he's
to bring us some milk. We're going to have supper in about an
hour; won't you stay and take a camp-meal with us? It will be a
novelty for you, at any rate."
We declined this invitation, as we had so lately dined. I looked
at Euphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me, and
gently shook her head. It would be a shame to make any
explanations which might put an end to this bit of camp-life, which
evidently was so eagerly enjoyed by our old friend. But we
insisted that they should come up to the house and see us, and they
agreed to dine with us the next evening. On Tuesday, they must
return to the city.
"Now, this is what I call real hospitality," said the ex-boarder,
warmly grasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him.
As we walked home, I happened to look back and saw old John going
over the fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin-pail and a
water bucket.
The next day, toward evening, a storm set in, and at the hour fixed
for our dinner, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we
did not expect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased, and as we
supposed that they might not have made any preparations for a meal,
Euphemia packed up some dinner for them in a basket, and I took it
down to the camp.
They were glad to see me, and said they had a splendid time all
day. They were up before sunrise, and had explored, tramped,
boated, and I don't know what else.
My basket was very acceptable, and I would have stayed awhile with
them, but as they were obliged to eat in the tent, there was no
place for me to sit, it being too wet outside, and so I soon came
away.
We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true
history of the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up
the deception, while Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive
people, they would feel very badly at having broken up our plans by
their visit, and then having appropriated our camp to themselves.
She thought it would be the part of magnanimity to say nothing
about it.
I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments,
although I wished very much to set the thing straight, and we
discussed the matter again as we walked down to the camp, after
breakfast next morning.
There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing, but
handed me a note written in lead-pencil on a card. It was from our
ex-boarder, and informed me that early that morning he had found
that there was a tug lying in the river, which would soon start for
the city. He also found that he could get passage on her for his
party, and as this was such a splendid chance to go home without
the bother of getting up to the station, he had just bundled his
family and his valise on board, and was very sorry they did not
have time to come up and bid us good-bye. The tent he left in
charge of a very respectable man, from whom he had had supplies.
That morning I had the camp-equipage packed up and expressed to its
owner. We did not care to camp out any more that season, but
thought it would be better to spend the rest of my vacation at the
sea-shore.
Our ex-boarder wrote to us that he and his wife were anxious that
we should return their visit during my holidays; but as we did not
see exactly how we could return a visit of the kind, we did not try
to do it. _
Read next: Chapter XII - Lord Edward and the Tree-man
Read previous: Chapter X - Wet Blankets
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