CAMP ROB
It was early in the afternoon when the Archibald party took up the line of
march for Camp Rob. The two ladies, supplied by Mrs. Sadler with coarse
riding-skirts, sat each upon a farm-horse, and Mr. Archibald held the
bridle of the one that carried his wife. Matlack and Martin Sanders, the
young man who was to assist him, led the way, while a led horse, loaded
with the personal baggage of the travellers, brought up the rear.
Their way wound through a forest over a wood road, very rough and barely
wide enough for the passage of a cart. The road was solemn and still,
except where, here and there, an open space allowed the sunlight to play
upon a few scattered wild flowers and brighten the sombre tints of the
undergrowth.
After a ride which seemed a long one to the ladies, who wished they had
attired themselves in walking-costume, the road and the forest suddenly
came to an end, and before them stretched out the waters of a small lake.
Camp Rob was not far from the head of the lake, and for some distance
above and below the forest stood back from the water's edge. In the shade
of a great oak tree there stood a small log-house, rude enough to look at,
but moderately comfortable within, and from this house to the shore a wide
space was cleared of bushes and undergrowth.
The lake was narrow in proportion to its length, which was about two
miles, and on the other side the forest looked like a solid wall of green
reflected in the water beneath. Even Mrs. Archibald, whose aching back
began to have an effect upon her disposition, was delighted with the
beauty of the scene, which delight endured until she had descended from
her horse and entered the log-cabin in which she was to dwell for a time.
It is not necessary to describe the house, nor is it necessary to dive
into the depths of Mrs. Archibald's mind as she gazed about her, passing
silently from room to room of the little house. She was a good woman, and
she had made up her mind that she would not be a millstone around the
necks of her companions. Many people have been happy in camps, and,
indeed, camp-life has become one of the features of our higher
civilization, and this, from what she had heard, must be a camp above the
common. So, think what she might, she determined to make no open
complaint. If it were possible for her to be happy here, she would be
happy.
As for Margery, no determination was needed in her case. Everything was
better than she had expected to find it. The cabin, with the bark on
almost everything, even the furniture, was just what a house in the woods
ought to be; and when she entered the little studio, which was nearer
allied to the original forest than any other part of the house, she
declared that that must be her room, and that living there she would feel
almost like a dryad in an oak.
"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.