CHAPTER XI. THE BOARDER'S VISIT.
For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, ourconversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding theprobable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had doneright, 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 friendscould come at any time to see us.
The next morning old John brought a note from Pomona. It was writtenwith pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin of anewspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit."
"So you've got company," said old John, with a smile. "That's a queergal 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 anythingthat would cut off the nice little revenue he was making out of ourcamp, and so we felt no concern on that score.
But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to go tothe house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another note.
We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly eleveno'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 slipoff."
This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused mass ofprobabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible it seemed tobe a party to this concealment and in league with a servant-girl who hasto "slip off!"
Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath.
"In all my life," said she, "I never see people like them two. I thoughtI 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 lastnight."
"Oh, we'll have to go up to the house," said Euphemia. "It won't do tostay away any longer."
"Well," said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, "if you know'd allI 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 thewhole place. He says to me that he know'd you'd both want them to makethemselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought they'dbetter do it. He asked me did I think you would be home by Monday, andI 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 tillthey come. And he says he would go down to the store and order somethings, if there wasn't enough in the house, and he asked her to seewhat would be needed, which she did, and he's gone down for 'em now. Andshe says that, as it was Saturday, she'd see that the house was all putto rights; and after breakfast she set me to sweepin'; and it's only byway of her dustin' the parlor and givin' me the little girl to take fora 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?" askedEuphemia.
"Oh, well," said Pomona, "he's no stranger, and she's real pleasant, andif it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind."
Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We wouldremember this.
Pomona now hurried off, and we seriously discussed the matter, and sooncame to the conclusion that while it might be the truest hospitality tolet 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 toodelicate sentimentality. We must go home and act our part of host andhostess.
Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast-time, giving theplace a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy her for solong a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to put in a fullhalf-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of the trees. We hadbeen so fully occupied with our own affairs that we had paid very littleattention to her, but she had probably heard pretty much all that hadbeen said.
At noon we paid her (giving her, at her suggestion, something extra inlieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take), and told herto send her husband, with his wagon, as soon as possible, as we intendedto break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everythingin John's wagon, and let him take the load to his house, and keepit there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompanimentsexpressed to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. Itwould not be necessary to say where we had been.
It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyedthe novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the next week,to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It seemed like losingall our labor and expenditure, to break up now, but there was no helpfor it. Our place was at home.
We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainlyhave come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodations forthem, neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides,we both thought that we would prefer that our ex-boarder and his wifeshould not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula.
We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoonpassed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clockalong 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 beenwaiting 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 alwayssome one to send, in a family like yours."
To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go afterthe milk.
"We want you to bring no milk," I cried, now quite angry. "I want you togo down to the station, and tell the driver of the express-wagon to comehere immediately. Do you understand? Immediately."
The boy declared he understood, and started off quite willingly. Wedid not prefer to have the express-wagon, for it was too public aconveyance, and, besides, old John knew exactly how to do what wasrequired. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The express-wagon didnot come.
When it became dark, we saw that we could not leave that night. Even ifa wagon did come, it would not be safe to drive over the fields inthe darkness. And we could not go away and leave the camp-equipage. Iproposed that Euphemia should go up to the house, while I remained incamp. But she declined. We would keep together, whatever happened, shesaid.
We unpacked our cooking-utensils and provisions, and had supper. Therewas no milk for our coffee, but we did not care. The evening didnot pass gayly. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and theexpress-boy, though, perhaps, it was not their fault. I had given themno notice that I should need them.
And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy andsubterfuge which now had become really necessary, if we did not wish tohurt 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 notmove on Sunday.
But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast (we found that thewater and the milk had been brought very early, before we were up) shestated that she did not intend to be treated in this way. She was goingup to old John's house herself; and away she went.
In less than half an hour, she returned, followed by old John and hiswife, both looking much as if they had been whipped.
"These people," said she, "have entered into a conspiracy against us. Ihave questioned them thoroughly, and have made them answer me. The horsewas at home yesterday, and the boy did not go aft
er the express-wagon.They thought that if they could keep us here, until our company hadgone, we would stay as long as we originally intended, and they wouldcontinue to make money out of us. But they are mistaken. We are goinghome immediately."
At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might haveconsulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much inearnest, and I would not have any discussion before these people.
"Now, listen!" said Euphemia, addressing the down-cast couple, "we aregoing home, and you two are to stay here all this day and to-night, andtake care of these things. You can't work to-day, and you can shut upyour house, and bring your whole family here if you choose. We will payyou for the service,--although you do not deserve a cent,--and we willleave enough here for you to eat. You must bring your own sheets andpillowcases, 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 thesmaller articles of camp-furniture, we filled a valise with our personalbaggage 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, andbefore 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 saidso while you was in camp."
I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growingsplendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was in first-rateorder, and there were two broods of little yellow puffy chicks.
Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures, oneby one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call themtootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona, andsoon afterward by Euphemia.
The cow was all right.
"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look exactlylike 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 madonce because I had given a lot of it to the dog, and couldn't let himhave but a pint."
"He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to thehouse. "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 forgottenthem.
"Oh! they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off rightafter breakfast."
We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dearhome again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-doors werushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden. Everything nowseemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room toroom, and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home wehad.
We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all aboutthe Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife was trainingto be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia was summoned to aconsultation in the kitchen.
Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as thestate of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and then we satdown to the table and began to eat slowly. But they did not come. Wefinished our meal, and they were still absent. We now became quiteanxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we should go and look for them.
We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river. Anunpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind, and perhaps thesame thing happened to Euphemia, for, without saying anything to eachother, we both turned toward the path that led to the peninsula. Wecrossed the field, climbed the fence, and there, in front of the tentsat our old boarder splitting sticks with the camp-hatchet.
"Hurrah!" he cried, springing to his feet when he saw us. "How glad I amto 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'recamping out."
"You are?" I exclaimed, looking around for his wife, while Euphemiastood motionless, actually unable to make a remark.
"Certainly we are. It's the rarest bit of luck. My wife and Adele willbe here directly. They've gone to look for water-cresses. But I musttell you how I came to make this magnificent find. We started out for awalk this morning, and we happened to hit on this place, and here we sawthis 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 doinghere, and he told me that this tent belonged to a gentleman who had goneaway, and that he was here to watch it until he came back. Then I askedhim how long the owner would probably be away, and he said he supposedfor a day or two. Then a splendid idea struck me. I offered the boya dollar to let me take his place: I knew that any sensible man wouldrather have me in charge of his tent, than a young codger like that. Theboy agreed as quick as lightning, and I paid him and sent him off. Yousee how little he was to be trusted! The owner of this tent will beunder the greatest obligations to me. Just look at it!" he cried. "Beds,table, stove,--everything anybody could want. I've camped out lots oftimes, but never had such a tent as this. I intended coming up thisafternoon after my valise, and to tell your girl where we are. But hereis 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 ourhouse?"
"You see," said the ex-boarder, "we should never have thought of doinganything so rude, had we supposed you would have returned so soon. Butyour girl gave us to understand that you would not be back for days, andso we felt free to go at any time; and I did not hesitate to make thisarrangement. And now that I have really taken the responsibility of thetent and fixtures on myself, I don't think it would be right to go awayand 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 explainmatters 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 havesuch a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to foragethis morning, and found an old fellow living near by who sold me a lotof provisions--even some coffee and sugar--and he's to bring us somemilk. We're going to have supper in about an hour; won't you stay andtake 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 atEuphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me, and gently shookher head. It would be a shame to make any explanations which might putan end to this bit of camp-life, which evidently was so eagerly enjoyedby our old friend. But we insisted that they should come up to thehouse and see us, and they agreed to dine with us the next evening. OnTuesday, they must return to the city.
"Now, this is what I call real hospitality," said the ex-boarder, warmlygrasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him.
As we walked home, I happened to look back and saw old John going overthe fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin-pail and a waterbucket.
The next day, toward evening, a storm set in, and at the hour fixed forour dinner, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we did notexpect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased, and as we supposed thatthey might not have made any preparations for a meal, Euphemia packed upsome 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 Idon'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 meto 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 historyof the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception,wh
ile Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people, they wouldfeel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit, and thenhaving appropriated our camp to themselves. She thought it would be thepart of magnanimity to say nothing about it.
I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments, althoughI wished very much to set the thing straight, and we discussed thematter again as we walked down to the camp, after breakfast nextmorning.
There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing, but handedme 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 atug lying in the river, which would soon start for the city. He alsofound that he could get passage on her for his party, and as this wassuch a splendid chance to go home without the bother of getting up tothe station, he had just bundled his family and his valise on board, andwas 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 hadhad supplies.
That morning I had the camp-equipage packed up and expressed to itsowner. We did not care to camp out any more that season, but thought itwould 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 weshould return their visit during my holidays; but as we did not seeexactly how we could return a visit of the kind, we did not try to doit.
Rudder Grange Page 11
